


Inevitable

by Annie_Walker



Series: Inevitable Series [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Character Death, Don’t copy to another site, Evil Tony Stark, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Irondad, Kidnapped Peter Parker, Mother-Son Relationship, Parent Pepper Potts, Parent Tony Stark, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Precious Peter Parker, Protective Steve Rogers, Teen Peter Parker, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, Tony Stark Has Issues, Training Camp, Уточнять у автора
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 180,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annie_Walker/pseuds/Annie_Walker
Summary: After the break-up of the Avengers and enactment of the Registration Act, Peter is kidnapped and forcibly recruited to become a soldier for Tony Stark. The famous Avenger is trying to rebuild his team - an army - to fight in an upcoming war. Except, Peter has no interest in being a soldier and does all that he can to escape his new life.However, it's not easy to outsmart or beat the great Tony Stark.





	1. Welcome to My (New) Life

Peter Parker woke up.

There was no fluttering of eyelids or drowsy groans. One minute he was asleep and the next he was awake. Although, he had no memories of falling asleep. He tried to recall his last moments. He remembered going out as Spider-man. He helped an elderly woman down some stairs, stopped a fight between two men and prevented a hold-up at a liquor store. A typical night in Queens. But, he could not remember coming home, saying good-night to Aunt May and falling asleep in his bed. 

Yet, he found himself in bed, wrapped in blankets. Stranger though, as he rose up to call out to Aunt May, was recognizing that he wasn't in his bed. He wasn't even in his bedroom. Surrounding him were four bare walls, no windows and one single door. A door Peter imagined was locked. 

His heart pumped faster. He got up from the bed, checking around the room. His senses weren't going off yet. Danger was not immediate, but that didn't make Peter relaxed. After a quick examination, he found nothing threatening. Everything was normal. Just a room with a bed, dresser and a single lamp on a single nightstand. 

None of it answered the burning question in his mind--where the hell was he?

Someone redressed him. That much he was certain as he never owned such soft gray sweatpants in his life. Knowing that, he suddenly became uncomfortable. Someone removed his previous clothes. Saw him in his underwear or worse... did they see him naked? Peter pulled on his sweatpants and sighed in relief. He recognized his boxers. They didn't touch him there. That was good. 

Well, that was not good, considering he was still at a loss of where he was and who brought him to the room. 

Peter went to the door, his bare feet chilled from the cold temperature. He tried the door and as he predicted, it was locked. So, he opted to knock. 

“Hey? Um... hello?" he called. "Anyone?”

No response. Peter sighed and pattered back to the bed to sit down. He thought of May. He hoped she was okay. That whoever took him didn't hurt her. Maybe they took her too? Holding her hostage? Trying to punish him for his meddling. 

No, that couldn't be it. If they wanted to hurt him, they wouldn't lock him in a comfortable room. Nonetheless, he worried for his aunt. He prayed she wasn't hurt and was somewhere safe. 

After all, Peter assumed the reason he was taken was because someone discovered his Spider-Man identity. 

But who? Maybe those drug gangs in Brighton Beach? Or Jamaica? But again, which gang would offer him such accommodations than in a dingy cellar, tied to a chair? Or chained to a wall?

Peter heard a set of footsteps drawing closer to his door. He grabbed the edge of the mattress, holding it tight as footsteps stopped outside the door. Then, with a swipe and click, the door opened and Peter was confronted by a single man. 

He was double Peter's size. Tall and muscular, with dark cropped hair and red-brown eyes that sharpened upon a single look at him. 

"Follow me," the man commanded. 

Peter did not. "Where am I?"

The man frowned. "Follow," he ordered again. "Now."

Where else could he go? If he stepped out of the room, there would be more opportunities to escape than remaining in the room. Leaving was his best option. Get out of the room and once he had access to a window or another door, he would make his leap for freedom. 

Peter got up from the bed and went with the burly escort. To his immense disappointment, he saw no windows. The hallway was had nothing, but more doors. More cells Peter imagined, which got him more curious as to where he was. Who would orchestrate all of his? Were there more people behind those doors? 

Peter tried to get the man to talk to him as they walked, but the man only grunted. No words. Just sounds. Peter accepted the lack of communication and went to silence for company. He took the opportunity to study his surroundings, take note of where he was compared to his room. He counted doors, counted corners and counted the number of people he saw in the hallway. Which were only two: the escort and a woman that got into an elevator. There was no one else. 

The man shoved Peter into an elevator. "Level three," the man growled and upon command, it moved. 

Peter gripped the side of the elevator, using his adhesives to keep him steady. The elevator was fast. They were barely riding it before it chimed and the door opened. The man yanked Peter by his shoulder, nearly throwing him off balance. Even with his own super strength, this man was strong enough to pull him right off his feet. 

Again, no windows in this hallway either. Peter was marched down to a door. The escort opened it and directed Peter inside. The room was not the same as the one Peter woke to. The room had a table and a set of chairs surrounding it. There were some potted plants and a bookcase that had few, if interesting, books to read. 

"Someone will come," the man told Peter and he closed the door. 

Peter heard the click. He was locked in again. 

He stood right by the door, eyeing the room with expected danger. Light on his feet, he moved further into the room, stopping at the first plant to search for some kind of camera or not. Nothing. He went to the next plant and then to the shelf, searching for anything, but all he found were dirt and books. Nothing dangerous. Yet.

Then a tingling sensation prickled the back of his neck. Warning. Danger.

Peter spun around right as the door opened. Instinctively, he raised his hands up, fingers balled and ready to fight.

A man in a suit walked in the room.

Peter’s mouth dropped. “Y-You’re… Tony Stark!”

Tony Stark stopped, tipped his chin down and his eyes peeked over the rims of his colored sunglasses. He stared. A part of his brow twitched up as he judged Peter from afar.

Peter was flabbergasted. Unbelievable! The famous icon stood not less than four feet away from him. This was Tony Stark! Iron Man! His hero!

He ditched the books and went right around the table to meet Tony. “I cannot believe this. I mean—Tony Stark!” he rambled excitedly. “You’re Iron Man! And you’re here. With me. Listening to me jabber on about, well, you, but… this is crazy! Oh my god…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony brushed aside, probably used to flabbergasted fans. “You wanna take a seat?”

Peter immediately dropped in a chair.

Tony took a seat across him, hands resting flat on the table between them. “So… Mr. Parker, is it?”

“Peter Parker,” Peter uttered, the smile not diminishing at all. He felt his heart racing ecstatically. He was literally seated across from Iron Man. This was his dream! “Sorry—I guess I should have said. It’s just you’re Tony Stark! And I’m really—”

“Do you talk this much?”

Peter quieted for a second. “Um… no,” he said. “Just a bit nervous. You know? Meeting you—the ultimate hero! An Avenger—”

Tony sniffed and flippantly gestured. “Yeah, okay, so, I’m gonna talk now and all you need to do is listen. Got it?”

Peter nodded. He could do that. He could listen to Tony Stark talk all day.

Tony brought a Starktech gadget and with a few taps, a hologram popped between them. Tony hit the screen and the screen moved. Peter watched and felt his whole body become rooted to the seat.

“Wanna watch again?” Tony asked as he hit play again.

Peter watched someone swing onto the scene, dressed in baggy red and blue sweatpants and sweater. The person leapt in front of a bus full of school children and, with their bare hands, stopped an out-of-control driver from crashing into the bus.

Peter swallowed as he moved his eyes from the screen to Tony. The man watched him.

He had to think. Needed to think of something. “That’s a, um, cool party trick,” he commented. “Is he an Avenger or something?”

“No,” Tony answered.

“Oh.”

Tony switched the screens. Another video capture of the same vigilante, battling against two robbers who were trying to steal a TV from an apartment. Peter watched the vigilante knock one man out and stuck the other one with web to the side of the building. It lasted only 10 seconds.

“So—”

“Nah-ah. Me first,” Tony interrupted him. “Quick question of the rhetorical kind—that’s you right?”

Peter flickered back to the frozen screenshot of the vigilante. “Err… no,” he said. “Are you crazy? I can’t… no one can catch a car like that. Or string up a man to a building. I mean… that’s impossible.”

“Video says otherwise.”

“Those are from YouTube, right?” Peter tried his best to be nonchalant. “It’s all fake. Done on the computer. You know, like with special effects and stuff.”

Tony scoffed. “Oh—I’m aware,” he said. “But this has no special effects. That’s all you.”

Peter put up a puzzled expression. “Um… No,” he said. “No, no…not me. I-I can’t do any of that.”

Tony Stark shut down the screen. The barrier gone, Peter saw Tony’s face clearly and the reading didn’t look good.

Suddenly, Peter’s spider-sense flared. Something came spiraling at him. Right in his face. Swiftly, Peter launched out of his seat. A flash surprised him and he lunged for the wall as something whizzed passed him.

He clung to the wall for a minute. The danger subsided and his senses returned to a normal sensation. He breathed a sigh of relief, until he remembered where he was.

Peter let go of the wall. His feet landed on the floor, already sensing Tony’s eyes on him. Slowly, he rotated until he met the man’s smirk of victory from across the table. He won.

“So… you’re the Spiderling,” Tony gestured to him. “Crime-fighting Spider. You’re Spider-Boy?”

Peter closed his arms around him, dropping his gaze to avoid the awkward eye-contact. “S-Spider-man.”

“Not in that onesie, you’re not.”

Peter frowned as he stared back at Tony Stark. This was _not_ how he imagined his first talk would be with Mr. Stark.

“Not an onesie,” he muttered.

Tony shrugged, uncaring. He pointed to the chair. A silent order to return to his seat. Peter pulled back his chair and took his seat. He didn’t know why he felt disappointed. Or sad.

Once situated, Tony pulled closer to the table. “Let’s get straight to the point here,” he began. “You know about the Accords, right?”

Peter heard about it from the news. Him and his Aunt May briefly talked about it. Not much to discuss on it considering it didn’t involve them. Well, at least, Aunt May didn’t think it did.

He nodded and Tony continued on. “Good—you keep up with the news. Then you also know its purpose.”

“To regulate Avengers’ heroics.”

“More or less,” Tony said. “It’s designed to regulate the activities of enhanced individuals. Keep the peace. Minimize damage. All good things.”

Peter nodded along. He understood all of it. What he didn’t understand was what it had to do with him. It almost got his heart fluttering in excitement. Was Tony Stark going to offer him a position on the team?

It wasn’t a secret that the Avengers split. Captain America took almost everyone on the team and ran in the wind. Gone. Missing. Went under the radar to hide for the rest of their lives. They were the bad guys according to the government. They were the true enemies against the world.

Peter didn’t see how. They were good once. They saved New York. They saved the world. How were they evil?

“To summarize, any and all enhanced individuals cannot participate in any policing or vigilante activities without registering with the Accords,” Tony Stark continued and he pulled up the screen again, showing Peter’s heroics as Spider-man. “Any individual who uses their powers to break the law or otherwise deemed to be a threat to the safety of the public, may be detained indefinitely without trial.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed at the end. He replayed Tony’s words over his head as dread settling in the pit of his stomach. “Um… but that’s just for the Avengers, right?” he said. “I mean… it’s for heroes like you and, um, Captain. Not someone like me. I just look after the little guy.”

Tony shook his head. “Not just for Avengers. It’s for any and all _enhanced individuals_ like you.” He displayed a profile screen of Peter. How long had Tony Stark observed him? “And it says here that the spider hero is not registered with the Accords. That’s against the law.”

Peter picked the cuticles of his fingernails. He looked elsewhere, anywhere but at Tony Stark. This was definitely not how he pictured his meeting with Tony Stark would go.

“I—I didn’t know that, sir,” Peter answered. “I wasn’t aware—”

“That’s obvious,” Tony said as he enlarged Spider-man’s profile. He studied the notes made on him. “Got some strength in you. Can’t tell by looking though.”

Peter felt himself go small. “Look, um, am I in trouble?” he asked. “I mean… I didn’t know!”

“You said that.”

“I mean it though,” Peter insisted, frantic rising. “Look—Mr. Stark, I’m sorry! Really! I didn’t mean to break any laws.”

“Others have said that too,” Tony commented, “but the law is the law, kiddo.”

Peter squirmed. Was he going to prison? What about Aunt May? Would she know where he went? Did she know where he was?

“Am I arrested?” he asked, doing his best to not cry in front of Mr. Stark. “Am I going to prison?”

Tony sighed, deeply. He turned off the screen and Peter saw Tony clearly once again. “No,” he said, “you’re not going to prison.”

Peter relaxed a little bit. Yet, he could not shake the tension brewing in the pit of his stomach. There was something else. Something bad.

But he chose to ignore the feeling. “Thank you,” he said with great relief. “I swear—I won’t do anything wrong. I promise.”

Tony tapped his finger on the desk, eyes narrowed on Peter in deep thought. “Yep. I know.”

Peter nodded, clinging onto the hope that he could leave the room and go back to his apartment in Queens. Back to Aunt May. “So, um… is there a phone I can use?” he asked. “Call my aunt to let her know I’m okay? Tell her I’ll be home soon or something. I don’t want her to worry.”

“You live with an aunt,” Tony noted and suddenly, Peter’s profile returned and he watched Tony add ‘aunt’ in the family category. “Noted. Okay… that’ll be taken care of.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, but then panicked. “But don’t tell her. She doesn’t know and I can’t have her freaking out because if she freaks out, I freak out.”

“She doesn’t know?”

Peter shook his head. “She can’t know. Not after...”

He stopped talking. Uncle Ben’s death was still fresh in his mind and heart. He died six months ago and he still caught her sniffling or gazing longingly at a photograph of Ben. Peter missed him terribly too. Some nights, he replayed that horrible tragedy and dreamed of it differently. Dreamed of a happy ending.

He took a deep breath, shaking away the sadness. “Anyway, she can’t know,” he said to Tony. “It’ll break her heart.”

Tony slowly nodded. “We’ll take care of it.”

Peter thanked him again. “So—how long will this take?” he asked. “When can I leave?”

Tony titled his head. “Leave?”

“Yeah, you know? Go home… I can go home, right?”

A long sigh as Tony ran a hand down his face. “That’s not possible.”

“What?”

“You broke the law,” Tony said. “You didn’t sign the Accords and you participated in unsanctioned vigilantism.”

Peter’s mind raced. “But… I didn’t know! I thought that was for Avengers,” he argued as hysteria pinched his throat. “I thought you said I wasn’t going to prison!”

“You’re not,” Tony said, calmed despite Peter’s heightened frenzy. The man was unafraid. “But you’re not leaving either.”

Peter’s brows crinkled in confusion. “I’m at a loss.”

Tony got up from his chair and paced about in front of the table. “You’re here because I need more enhanced individuals,” he explained. “There’s a war out there. Most people don’t know it. More don’t care. Too petty to be bothered, but war has come and Earth needs defenders.”

Peter’s face pinched in puzzlement. “So—you’re making me an Avenger?”

“No.”

“Then… I don’t get what’s happening.”

Tony stopped and rested his hands on the back of a chair. “You’ve been recruited,” he said. “You’re going to stay here and learn to better yourself. Reach your full potential. That sort of thing.”

Peter’s face slackened. “What?”

“ _What?_ Were you not listening the last two minutes?” Tony sounded a bit annoyed that he had to repeat himself. “I thought you were smart? Don’t you go to that fancy STEM school or something?”

Peter blinked, trying to compose himself from the shock. “I heard you, but I just… I don’t get it,” he confessed. “I can’t leave?”

“Nope.”

“But—I thought I wasn’t going to prison?”

“You’re not.”

“Then why can’t I leave?”

Tony groaned in agitation. “I’m not doing this circle again,” he said, rubbing his temples. “You’ll be escorted back to your room. Someone will come by later to explain everything. You can pester them with questions or whatever.”

Peter shot up from his chair. “What—you can’t do that! I have rights and I-I…” he said, thinking quick as he recalled all those Law & Order shows his aunt loved to watch. “I want my phone call! I want a lawyer!”

Tony stopped at the door. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “Those rights aren’t extended to those with enhanced abilities.”

“But—”

Tony Stark didn’t wait. The door opened and he walked through, leaving Peter to run after him. Only, Peter never went passed the door. Something huge blocked him. He back-tracked, stumbling away as he tried to correct his balance.

It wasn’t something. It was someone. The same person who escorted Peter earlier. “Ready to go?” he grunted.

Peter stood on his tip-toes, watching Tony’s back retreat further down the hallway. Not a care at all. Peter had to stop him. He slid low, trying to move around the large guy.

The man caught Peter. He twisted Peter’s arm, pinning them behind his back. Peter winced and wiggled in hopes to get out of the man’s grip, but he was extremely strong. Like—super strong.

Unable to get out of the man’s grasp, Peter resorted to his last option. He pleaded. “Please! Please—let me go!” he begged the man. “My aunt—”

“Don’t care.”

The man hoisted Peter right off his feet, painfully forcing him out of the interrogation room right back to the room he woke up to. The enforcer tossed Peter into the room with little effort and chuckled at the sight of Peter sprawled on the floor.

“Welcome to your new life, Spider-Boy.”


	2. Chapter 2

For hours, Peter screamed and punched at the door holding him captive in the world's most boring room. He shouted all sorts of things from pleas to bartering and even resorted to cursing when desperation hit him hard.

Nothing happened though. No one came. They left him.

Peter went to the bed. He flopped down, the mattress softening the blow. Yet, his whole body hurt. Mind. Heart. Lungs even. His eyes were red and vision blurry. Not to mention he was starving. He hadn't eaten anything since the kidnapping. Which, he didn't even know how long that had been.

He thought of Aunt May. Was she looking for him? Worried sick? Did she think he died somewhere? Like Uncle Ben did? That made Peter's heart ache. He never wanted to worry Aunt May. She didn't deserve it.

But, Mr. Stark said he would take care of it. Whatever that meant. Probably nothing good.

And that was a whole different problem. His hero—Tony Stark, aka Iron Man—was not the hero he believed him to be. He knew the fallout between him and Captain America was bad. Every news outlet discussed it, all of them stating that the world entered a new era of superheroes. A new era of how the world would govern with superheroes out and about.

At the beginning, Peter didn't think anything would drastically change. After all, he thought the Accords were for the Avengers—not everyone. Everything changed. Not for the better.

He wished for those years the Avengers were a team. Together, fighting off aliens and saving New York—thus, the world. He missed those days. When Iron Man caught the nuclear bomb and sent it straight to space. Or Captain America punching aliens in the face with Hulk hopping from one ship to the next in a wave of destruction. Those were the Avengers Peter rooted for and admired. Those were the Avengers he wanted to become.

Not… this.

Whatever this was.

Food arrived. Turkey club sandwich, apple, broccoli and… some kind of dessert that smelled awful. He didn't even touch it. Peter ate everything else. Meal finished, the only thing left to do was sleep. But, he didn't want to sleep. He was afraid to sleep. Afraid what they might do to him if he was not awake to defend himself. He had to stay alert. Ready to fight when or if they come back.

He hoped they came back. If only to do something other than stare at a blank wall. Otherwise, he was certain he would die of boredom.

How much time had passed? How long has he been held here against his will? Hours? Days? Weeks? No—cannot be weeks. Maybe a few hours. A day at most. God—he wanted out. He wanted out of this room!

Peter got up and went to the door. He pounded his fist against the heavy door. "I want out!" he screamed as loud as his tired voice allowed. "Anyone? Hey! Anyone listening? I'm a kid! This is  _kidnapping_!"

Nothing again. No surprise. Peter slapped the door in frustration and huffed. He paced his room. Still bored, he tried another tactic. He jumped to the ceiling and let himself hang from there. What did it matter if he showed off his skills? They already knew he was Spider-man.

He stayed upside down, not at all feeling the blood rushing to his head. Not that his blood did that. It was something of a spider trait. He never tested how long he could remain upside down without passing out. Maybe he could try now?

The test didn't last long. His super-hearing picked up a commotion, drawing louder near his door. Peter dropped from the ceiling, landing perfectly on his feet as he stood in the middle and listened.

Two people were talking. Discussing about tests, practices and concerns that Peter didn't quite understand. The voices ceased and in that brief moment, Peter's heart still until the door opened.

Peter's shoulder dropped upon seeing the man again, filling the door and imposing upon Peter. Behind him, was someone even smaller than Peter. It was a woman. Her brown hair knotted in a bun and she held kindness in her eyes as she gazed at Peter.

"Hi!" she smiled at him. "You must be Peter Parker. Is that correct?"

Peter shifted his gaze from the man to the woman. "Um…"

"Don't worry about Wondy, here," the woman gestured to Peter's enforcer. "He's not going to bite you. Simon?"

The man approached Peter, but Peter jumped away from him. He grabbed the wall and slithered up to the ceiling. He glued his fingers and feet to the ceiling and glared down at the man and woman.

Neither of them acted surprise. More… exasperated. They must deal with difficult people all the time.

The man approached, his hands reaching up to snatch Peter.

Peter growled. "Stay back! Get away from me!"

The man did not listen and tried to snatch him. Peter dodged him and moved along the ceiling to the opposite side of the room.

The man went to follow, but the woman stopped him. "Let me take it from here, Simon," she said and looked at Peter. "Hey—there's no need to be afraid of us, Mr. Parker. We are here to help you."

Peter shook his head. "Liar!"

The woman's smile never faltered. Her eyes remained kind. "I know you're scared," she said. "That's normal. Everyone has gone through exactly what you are going through."

Everyone? There were others like him? Trapped and held against their will? How many people did Mr. Stark steal?

The woman kept talking, her voice soft and homely. She reminded Peter of his aunt. "I'm not here to hurt you," she assured him. "Neither is Simon. Think of him as a helper. If you have questions or need anything, you can ask him. As for me, my name is Nellie and I'm a nurse. I'm under oath to do no harm."

Peter scoffed. "You're holding me against my will."

Nellie didn't act bothered by it. "Nothing will happen to you," she said. "You will be well cared for. All we need is a physical done."

Did she really think he would come down from the ceiling and  _willingly_  go with her? If she thought that, then she was insane. Everyone here was insane. How did they not think kidnapping a minor wasn't problematic?

A tickle of warning spiked within him. It gave him a split second heads up to dodge Simon's rough hands. The man snuck up while Nellie spoke to him and tried to yank him down from the ceiling. With Simon's hand missing by mere millimeters, Peter swung away to the next wall.

Taking in the situation, Peter noticed the door to the room was opened and exposed. Neither Nellie nor Simon were in position to block him. Freedom was within reach.

Time to go.

Peter leapt over Nellie, who shrieked when he came barreling near her head. She ducked right as Peter landed outside the door, in front of a long stretched hallway. No other person. A direct route to freedom.

He bolted, hearing cries and roars behind him. He didn't care to know what they were yelling. His only thought focused on escaping. Get out of the building. Find a phone. Or a road. Or something. Anything.

He sprinted down the hall, passing door after door. None opened despite the commotion following him. Maybe they were all locked as well. Other people trapped behind those doors, needing rescue.

Once he got out and found authorities, he would free them. He promised.

He slid around the corner, his feet gripping the tile to stop him from crashing into the wall. Panting and heart acting rabid against his rib cage, beating madly to get out, he thought he was about to have an actual heart attack.

Stay alive, Peter silently encouraged his heart. Stay alive and get out.

Peter spotted the elevator. Freedom! He charged forward, hitting the button repeatedly. He checked behind him. He saw Simon coming after him, but too far to catch him if the elevator doors opened now—

The elevator door opened and Peter jumped in, scanning the panel for buttons. There were no buttons. Nothing. Shit.

Peter ran his hands all over the sleek panel, but his hands hit nothing. There were no buttons anywhere. Then, he remembered. Simon spoke the level aloud. It was a smart elevator.

Peter glanced up, looking for something that resembled a camera or speaker. "Ground floor," he panted. "First floor? The floor with the exit."

Nothing. The door didn't even close. Was there something he had to do? Say something?

"Come on!" Peter shouted as loud as he could. "Close the door! Move!"

But it didn't. Nothing happened.

Peter peeked his head out. Simon was closing in. Too close for comfort. If the elevator didn't move…

Forget it, Peter decided. The elevator wasn't going to move on his command. Everything always had to be difficult for him. Damn Parker luck.

His only option was to go through the elevator's ceiling and into the shaft. He's seen old movies of action heroes jumping into elevator shafts and scaling them up and down. He can do it too. He was Spider-man. It would be easy.

Peter launched himself to the ceiling, searching for the hatch that would let him out to the shaft. He crawled along the top, searching and checking each square. Yet, he didn't find the hatch. There was nothing. How could there be nothing?

The pounding footsteps were loud. Simon was close. Peter was out of time.

He dropped from the ceiling and abandoned the elevator. Maybe there were stairs somewhere? All buildings required stairs.

Peter rushed out of the elevator as Simon got close enough to tackle him. Peter jumped out of the way and went full sprint down the hallway. His senses screamed of danger, warning him to run.

So, he ran. Fast. Faster. Don't look back. Keep running.

More commotion sounded around him. It blew his ears off, but Peter persisted. He checked each door, hoping to find the stairs to freedom. Yet, each door was the exact same. Steel and closed off.

Come on! Peter fumed as he came across no staircase. There had to be stairs! There had to be!

Peter whirled around the corner and found that he went in a big circle. He was back to where the room he escaped from. And Nellie, the nurse, stood right outside the opened room with a look of surprise.

She moved right into his path, holding her hands out to stop him. "Wait! Mr. Parker—"

Peter slammed on his brakes, nearly tripping over his feet before he re-balanced himself. He was going to have to—

All the air went out of Peter's lungs when something collided into him. His feet were knocked off and Peter thought for a minute he was flying. His feet were up in the air, wind rushing through his hair and his eyes only saw the ceiling. But, a heavy anchor wrapped around him, crushing him.

God! He couldn't breathe. Why couldn't he breathe?

He heard shouting overhead. Nellie's voice screaming as her face came closer to him. "Stop it! Stop!" she said. "You're choking him!"

That's why he couldn't breathe. Someone was choking him. Peter rolled his eyes as far back as he could, trying to see the face of his choker. But everything was dimming. Oxygen deprivation. He read about it on the Internet. In a few minutes, he's going to pass out. Or die.

That's not good.

Nellie's voice boomed louder. " _Let him go_!"

The grip around Peter's chest loosened. His bones pulled back from his organs. His lungs immediately expanded in relief and Peter gave out a gasping choke. He hacked and cough, barely recovering from the brink of suffocation.

Someone's fingers carded through his hair and whispers filtered in and out of his ears. "Easy… breathe… another… you're doing great… over here!"

Peter felt dizzy as he sucked in more oxygen. His vision got better and he saw Nellie again. She stood in front of him and he realized it was her fingers carding through his hair. She smiled at him when she realized he was looking at her.

"You're okay," she comforted. "You're doing great."

What was he doing? He checked around him. There were enormous biceps around him, pinning his arms to his side. His feet dangled, not even touching the floor. He was helpless as he remained locked in place with Nellie brushing his hair away from his face.

Like his Aunt May did whenever he was upset or sick.

Peter jerked away. "Don't touch me!"

Nellie pulled her hand back. "Sorry," she said, but Peter didn't think she meant it. "Just trying to distract you."

"Distract me?"

He felt a prick go right into the crook of his elbow. He let out a sharp gasp and swung his head to his right side. There were two new people in the hallway. Both wearing doctor scrubs and one was holding a needle.

"That should do it," the man with the needle said. "It'll work quickly, so I suggest we start heading over."

"Do you think he can walk?" Nellie asked.

"I'll carry him," Peter heard Simon's voice behind him. It was he who tackled him from behind. "Don't need him to stick onto anything."

Suddenly, he was on the move. Simon carried him, arms pinned and feet barely scraping the surface of the floor. Peter squirmed, resisting their efforts, but the more he struggled, the more tired he became. In fact, every muscle in his body slacked. Almost like he lost all strength. Even speaking took too much of an effort.

What was happening to him?

They reached the elevators again. They all hopped into the elevator, scotching in to make room for everyone. Strange fingers touched Peter's neck, trying to find a pulse.

"Heartbeat is good," someone declared. "How you feeling, champ?"

Peter furrowed his eyes at the nickname. Champ? Really? "I… y-you…" It was too hard to speak. His tongue slipped on words and his lips barely formed any shape to make a decent-sound of any word in any language.

He resorted to a glare.

"He's fine," Simon said. "All in?"

Nellie, who remained in front of Peter, nodded. "Yep," she said. "All right, FRIDAY? Level six please?"

To Peter's immense displeasure, the doors closed and the elevator began to move. Why did it not do that for him when he needed to make his escape?

The ride was surprisingly short. The elevator dropped them off at the appropriate floor of what looked like to be some sort of medical ward. Peter eyed it all as Simon carried him through the passage, following Nellie's lead as the other two quickly disappeared in the throngs of other medical workers.

"This way," Nellie gestured for Simon to follow her. "We have his room set up here."

Simon carried him after her, reaching to a door with a number on it. 616.

Nellie opened the door and the first thing Peter saw was an examination table. She pointed to the examination table. "You can put him down there," she said to Simon.

Simon took one, long stride and reached the examination table. To Peter's surprise, the man gently laid him down before reaching for the restraining cuffs that were attached on both sides of the table.

Nellie put her hand on Simon's arm. "It's okay, Wondy," she said. "He won't do anything."

"He may run," Simon replied.

"Not in this state."

Peter couldn't argue with that logic. He was lethargic. Everything was too heavy for him. Including his eyelids, which dangerously almost closed. What did they give him? He thought his overactive metabolism would prevent any medicine from working that quickly?

Nellie pulled up a chair and swiveled over to the table. "Okay, Mr. Parker," she said, a smile plastered on her face again. "I'm just going to do a routine check. Blood pressure, hearing test, etc."

She had a portable table next to her and a hologram shot up. Peter stared and recognized it as his profile again. The same one Mr. Stark had in the interrogation room. The screen switched, his face fizzling out, morphing into the appearance of a hospital chart.

Nellie peered at the screen. "I see you are up-to-date with your vaccines. That's good," she commented. "You had your wisdom teeth recently removed."

If whatever drug wasn't coursing through Peter's veins and making him too lax to move, Peter would still be frozen on the examination table. They have his health records? All of them?

Nellie continued reading the records, making notes before she pushed the portable table back into its old position. "Seems like you are a healthy boy to begin with," she said. "So—again, I'm going to do the basic check-up. Nothing to be afraid of. Okay?"

No, but what could he do about it? Even if he wasn't completely helpless, there was still Simon. The man never left the room. He stayed in the corner, all stoic and silent that it creeped Peter out.

Nellie did as she told him. She took his blood pressure, checked his eyes and tongue, and her fingers moved around his neck and jaw, checking for any inflammation. Then, she brought out a stethoscope.

"Going to lift your shirt, okay?"

Again, he couldn't protest and she proceeded to lift his shirt, showing his bare chest. She pressed the cold stethoscope against his skin over his heart. She listened carefully and Peter watched her eyes squint in concern.

"Does your heart normally beat that fast?" she asked.

The drug prevented an easy response, so it took him a long time to gasp out a 'yes' to her question. His heart did normally beat that fast since the bite.

Nellie marked it down in her notes. She moved the stethoscope to his middle and asked for a big breath. He did his best and she typed in more notes. She told Peter she was done and that his doctor would come in to finish the rest.

"You just stay and relax," Nellie said, still holding that fond smile. "Dr. Cho is nice. You'll like her."

Peter doubted. He didn't like anyone at the moment. He also failed to relax. Can't with Simon looming nearby, watching him like a predator waiting for its prey to make a mistake. Almost daring it.

As the time passed, Peter's strength slowly returned. His toes wiggled and his fingers twitched. Then, the other muscles followed. At first, it all felt sore and stiff, but he pushed forward. He lifted his arm. A few centimeters from the table until he got it off a few inches. He smiled in victory as he achieved control of his body.

He shifted on the table and Simon suddenly stepped up to him as if to nail him down to the table. Peter lifted his hands up as far as he could to shield himself when the door opened again.

A sleek Asian woman entered, carrying a tablet in her arms. She had her hair tied back in a bun, revealing a gentle and intelligent face. She greeted Simon first, asking how he was doing before she moved to take over the seat Nellie once occupied.

She rested the tablet on the portable table and turned to him. "You must be Mr. Parker," she greeted. "I'm Helen Cho. You're primary doctor."

Helen Cho wasn't as delicate or friendly as Nellie. She was direct and unafraid. Like it was normal for a  _boy_  to be here. In a medical examination. Without his guardian and being held against his will.

Once Dr. Cho got situated and read over the notes Nellie left for her in his new health chart, she turned her chair to him. "So—how you feeling, Mr. Parker?"

"Fine."

"Really?"

Peter studied her for a moment before his eyes slid over to where Simon kept his post. "Yes."

Dr. Cho followed his line of sight. "Simon? Can you give Mr. Parker and me a moment?"

"He runs, Doctor," was all Simon said.

"So do I when I get the chance," Dr. Cho got up from her seat and opened the door for him. "Now, I need to speak to my patient in private. After all, I have to uphold my duty and that includes doctor-patient confidentiality."

Simon shot a distrustful look at Peter, but complied with Dr. Cho's request. He stepped out, but not without telling her that he would be right outside the door. Dr. Cho thanked him and closed the door.

"Now that it's you and me," Dr. Cho said, retaking her seat. "How are you feeling?"

"Scared," Peter answered. He was afraid of what was going to happen. Not only to him, but to his aunt as well. How was she handling his disappearance? Did she know? Was she afraid? What was Mr. Stark going to do to her?

Dr. Cho nodded, knowingly. "I understand. The first few weeks are difficult to adjust," she said. "But everyone here wants to help you succeed."

"Succeed?"

"In reaching your full potential," Dr. Cho clarified as she brought over his health chart to him. "So—it seems everything is normal. At least, for your condition. Blood results came back good too."

Peter's brows crinkled in confusion. Nellie didn't draw his blood.

Dr. Cho must have seen his expression because she quickly explained. "When you first arrived, we drew some vials of your blood to get a better understanding of your biological make-up."

That didn't make Peter feel better. "You stole blood?"

Dr. Cho hardly acknowledged the statement. "We used it to help us understand your mutated genetics and to help us develop the necessary medicine for you. Such as the drug you took today."

"You mean  _forced_ ," Peter corrected with a bite in his tone. How many more violations are these people willing to make?

Dr. Cho gave a tight, uncomfortable smile. "In order to help you, we had to take samples," she said to excuse their invasion of privacy and thievery. "Now, I don't know how much you were told, but the next step is to do a power analysis."

"A what?"

"Power analysis," Dr. Cho repeated again, as if that would clear up any confusion. "We need to know of your strengths and weaknesses to create the best plan for you."

"Plan?" Peter said. "What plan? What…"

Peter forced himself into a sitting position. The drug weaned off and it didn't hurt that much for him to sit up. He swung his legs over the side, feet dangling over the edge as his toes gently brushed the cold tile below him.

A lot of things were happening and it was happening too fast. "Listen—I do not belong here," he said to Dr. Cho. "Do you know I am a  _minor_? I'm fifteen! Mr. Stark or, whoever, kidnapped me. This is all illegal!"

Dr. Cho simply stared at him. No expression of sympathy or pity. Only a blank slate.

That frustrated Peter. "I want to go home!" he half-shouted. "Okay? I want to go home! I don't want to be here. I want—"

God—he was crying. He felt tears slipping out of the corner of his eyes and sliding down his cheek. Peter rubbed his hands over his face, trying to hide them, but he knew Dr. Cho saw them. No way she didn't catch the sight of those two tears escaping from his eyes.

He heard Dr. Cho sigh. "It's okay to be scared," she said to him, offering a tissue. "As I said before, many people have a hard time adjusting at the beginning, but eventually, it becomes normal. They make friends and become part of the team. You will too."

Peter took the tissue, but shook his head. No way. He would not go along with this ploy. He won't be some kind of secret warrior for Tony Stark or whoever.

But Dr. Cho didn't seem to believe in his silent conviction. "I understand why you're scared. You are young and it must be intimidating for you to be by yourself," she said. "But, none of us here wants to hurt you. We want to  _help_ you."

They have said that before, but hearing them repeat it over and over again didn't convince Peter to trust them.

"Now, Mr. Stark specifically asked me to ensure you feel comfortable and safe," Dr. Cho continued on, surprising Peter with that tidbit of knowledge. "I will do my best, but unlike most people here, I do not have any underlying power. I cannot read minds, so you must tell me whenever you aren't comfortable with something or if you feel too stressed, okay?"

Peter said nothing and Dr. Cho took that as a silent acceptance to his fate.

"Why don't we start with your first test, okay?" she said and handed him some kind of ball. "I need you to squeeze this as hard as you can. This is to measure your strength without any acceleration."

Peter completed the first test of many that day. Once he nearly punctured the ball in his palm, she switched it out with another ball, one with more resistance than the previous ball. After that, she basically did a tour of the floor with him. He had his vision tested at all different angles and distances. The same with hearing. How far away could he hear and how loud or soft pitches could he tuned in. Then she had him hanging upside-down to measure his heart-rate and blood pressure as he stayed up there for an hour. He did weight-lifting as well along with hand tosses and jumping tests.

The tests were all weird. None of them remotely close to the ones he did for his primary physician back in Queens. Then again, his doctor didn't know about his spider-like abilities.

During it all, Peter never gave his full effort. He acted like he did, breathing heavier purposefully to avoid any questions or doubts. Especially when Simon trailed behind them, watching him like a hawk.

After the brief lap on the indoor track, Dr. Cho declared his tests were done. They returned to the medical room 616 and Dr. Cho requested for Peter to sit on the examination table. He did and Dr. Cho fiddled with something on the counter.

Simon returned to the room as well, guarding the door. He still didn't trust Peter to not make a break. Smart thinking.

"All right," Dr. Cho said, turning in her chair. "Can I see your arm?"

Peter timidly lifted left arm, the one closest to her. He wondered what she was going to do next. Take more blood?

To his surprise, she snapped a metal bracelet around his wrist. It locked together and a blue light eliminated from the silver shine of the thin bracelet. Peter stared, looking it over with perplexity.

"That's your identification bracelet," Dr. Cho said and Peter looked up to her. "It'll give you access to certain areas in the compound like the cafeteria, gym, your bedroom, etc. It will also monitor your health, like heart-rate, stress levels and blood pressure."

"Basically it's a tracking device," Peter grumbled as he tried to rip it off him. It was impossible. "Why won't it—"

"It cannot come off," Dr. Cho answered his unfinished question. "It's made of vibranium. The strongest metal on Earth. And once I finish encoding your power analysis into the system, it will take the necessary actions to subdue you to prevent you from breaking it."

"So this is a collar, right?" Peter growled. "It will zap me if I try to remove it?"

"Or drug you," Dr. Cho added. "Only to sedate, nothing lethal." When she saw the look on his face, she emphasized, "Again, we aren't here to hurt you."

"Saying it over and over again won't make me believe you."

Dr. Cho finished inputting her data and notes into his profile. She tapped on a few things and received confirmation. The bracelet glowed again and Peter knew it was over. It was officially locked and loaded.

"Your power score is a six," Dr. Cho told him as she closed down the hologram. "Not too bad considering your age. After a few months of training, you may be upgraded, but right now, you are average. Again, not a bad thing considering you are only fifteen."

Peter gaped at the doctor. Was he supposed to be impressed? "Okay."

Dr. Cho smiled. "Remember—if you ever feel uncomfortable or stressed, let us know."

"I feel uncomfortable and I am highly stressed," Peter said and meant it.

Dr. Cho only offered a small smile of sympathy. There was a knock on the door and Dr. Cho gave her nod of approval for Simon to open the door. Another man stepped in, dressed in a basic black and gold uniform, and his blue eyes spotted Peter at once. As if he already knew exactly his position.

Dr. Cho waved the man entrance. "Mr. Reynolds," she greeted. "You're early."

The man—Mr. Reynolds—didn't look away from Peter. "I was told I have a new recruit," he said. "Came as quickly as I could."

Dr. Cho blushed as she fiddled with the tablet. "Um… oh! Yes, Peter," she started. "This is Peter Parker. Peter? This is—"

"Robert Reynolds," the man cut in, stepping forward and shoving his hand into Peter's for a strong handshake. "You are not exactly what I expected, but it is nice to meet you. Mr. Stark told me you are the Spiderling? Spider-Boy?"

"Spider-man," Peter said.

Mr. Reynolds smiled, clearly humored by the name. "Right. Of course," he said. "Well, most people call me Rob or Reynolds. But, my hero name is Sentry. I'm to be your captain."

Peter arched his brows up. "Huh?"

Robert Reynolds—Sentry—turned to Dr. Cho. "Did anyone talk to him about this?"

"He's having a difficult time adjusting," Dr. Cho explained as Peter stewed over the fragile treatment. "His mind is still trying to comprehend everything."

Reynolds gave an affirmative nod. "Okay, well, then," he said, turning his attention back to Peter. "I guess I'll do my best to explain it all on the way to meet the others."

"Others?" Peter uttered. There were more people he had to meet? More people to terrorize him?

"Yes," he said. "Going to meet the team."

"Team?"

"Yes," Reynolds' voice was smoothe and unthreatening. "Here—let's get you some shoes and your training clothes first. I'll tell you more on the way."

Peter didn't even realize the man grabbed his elbow and dragged him off the table. Dr. Cho passed on her good-byes and reminders while Simon stayed behind as he had no need to follow. After all, Reynold's grip was far stronger Simon's hold. Peter even worried that his bone was breaking under those stubby fingers.

"Where are you taking me?" Peter questioned as Reynolds took him to the elevator again. He was nervous. His spider-senses spiked a bit, but he didn't know if it was due to his fears or if he was truly in danger.

Probably both.


	3. No I in Team

Once Peter tied on his new shoes and changed into a new set of clothes that were similar to his school's gym attire of grey sweatpants and a dark blue sweatshirt, Reynolds led him to a high-bay training room. Peter noted the high ceilings and the industrial beams that ran across from wall to wall. He quickly measured the distance it would take for him to leap to one of the beams. They were higher than he was used to. He needed his webs to securely make it to the beam. Peter searched the ceiling, wondering if there was an escape hatch or ventilation system he could crawl into. 

But, he was plotting got distracted when Reynolds barked out. "Company!" he yelled, his voice echoing in the room. "Line up!"

Peter took notice of a handful of individuals, who were originally occupying gym mats, stretching and chatting to one another. Upon Reynolds order, they got up from the floor and did a line-up. Not to military standards, but they were at attention enough to show respect.

“I have a new teammate to introduce," Reynolds said, pulling Peter up front to stand in the middle between the others and Reynolds. "His name is Peter Parker. Also known as Spider-Man.”

His hero name garnered a few, scoffing chuckles from the group and Peter's cheeks warmed.

“ _Man_?” cackled one guy with sharp, blue eyes that act wild. “More like a baby! He’s a baby! Bity Baby, bity baby—does he need his pacifier?”

“Cool it, Powers,” Reynolds warned before he glanced down at Peter. “Ignore him. He’s a fool. Let me introduce you to the group.” He pointed to the beginning of the line. “First is Yuriko Oyama—”

“Lady Deathstrike,” the slender Asian woman corrected him as her unusually long nails became visible. Wait… were those  _metal_  claws? “That’s my name.”

Reynolds ignored the interruption. “Next is Min Li Ng  _and_ she also goes by Silk Fever.”

Peter stared at another Asian woman with an aura of fire surrounding her body. Her brown hair waved with the smoldering smoke that chimney from her as he eyes glared like charcoal at him.

“And this is Jack Harrison, John Powers and Luke Cage,” Reynolds finished down the line-up. “The guys on the team.”  

Jack Harrison had his arms crossed, scowling as he listened to Reynolds make introductions. John Powers’s lips pulled up in a devilish grin, eye gleaming with deadly excitement that made Peter’s spider-sense go haywire. And Luke Cage, extremely tall with muscles forming over muscles, only grunted at him.

Reynolds clapped on Peter’s shoulder. “That’s the team,” he announced. “They’ll be your comrade-in-arms, helping one another improve and work together to fight and save the planet. You’ll learn to trust one another and rely on each other to complete missions.”

Peter cocked an eyebrow up. He definitely didn’t believe that. Every one of his new teammates looked ready to shred him into pieces, particularly Lady Deathstrike.

“Don’t be nervous,” Reynolds said, encouragingly. “They won’t hurt you. Well… not purposefully. Right?” Reynolds glared at the team.

He received a chorus of mixed responses: yeah, sure, whatever, okay.

Their relaxed promises didn’t ease up the spider-sense. Peter only shook his head. “You know—I think there’s been a mistake,” he said to Reynolds. “I’m not supposed to be here. I mean… I go to school! I have an algebra test I need to take. I’ve studied for it and all, plus there’s that essay I need to write on  _The Great Gatsby_. It’s like… only one page at the moment, but I need to make it into five pages with motifs and themes and—”

“Relax,” Reynolds said, squatting down to be at eye-level with Peter. “I know you’re nervous. Everyone is on their first day, but you’ll do fine. I’ll be here at all times to make sure nothing afoul happens, okay? Mr. Stark was specific about you.”

“Specific about what?”

“To be careful,” Reynolds said. “I don’t necessary like it any more than you, but times have changed, Peter. We all need to chip in. But, trust me, nothing bad will happen to you.”

Reynolds rose back up to his full height and pushed Peter to join his fellow teammates. He fell into place right beside Luke Cage, whose dark eyes bared down on him with such intensity Peter thought he lasers were going to shoot at him. Precautious, Peter made a berth between him and the man.

Reynolds looked at them all with a pleased expression. “Okay—we’re all stretched and ready, so let’s hit the course!”

_BREAK_

By course, Reynolds meant a gigantic obstacle course. It consisted of walls over forty feet tall, ropes to climb, barbed wire to crawl under and other traps Peter had yet to face as he simply stared at the terror.

The most Peter ever did was climb a ten-foot rope in gym class and five minutes of sit-ups. This was nothing like his gym teacher put together.

Reynolds instructed everyone to go through the obstacle course together. No one was allowed to run off ahead or be left behind. He emphasized on the latter and Peter knew he meant him.

They all went to the start and Reynolds called out, starting the clock. Jack Harrison led the group. He made it look easy to jump over those hurdles, as did the others. Peter didn’t have much of a problem with it, but he did have to concentrate. It wasn’t as easy without his goggles to help him adjust.

He followed along, doing his best to stay up with the group of older men and women. Already he knew they disliked him by his age alone. Peter didn’t blame them. Who wants a kid on their team? Even if he could stop an out-of-control car with his bare hands. If it made them feel any better, Peter didn’t want to be there either.

He doubted that it did.

They continued through the course, hopping over small to large walls that Peter found to be quite easy. His constant use of climbing up buildings in New York made the course walls seem child’s play. They did vaults over beams and then came the crawl underneath the barbed wire.

The sharp edges of wire poked and prodded Peter mercilessly that he often couldn’t stop himself from wincing.

“Tired out?” came a cackling call from ahead. Powers again. “You need a little kiss for your boo-boo.”

Peter ground his teeth together, but said nothing as he persisted on, freeing himself from the wire to join the others. Luke Cage gave him the once over, but said nothing. He was alive. Bleeding, but alive.

They climbed up a tower, having to avoid touching the metal shock bars that mysteriously popped out from the walls. Peter did well again, easily dodging the shockers that popped out from nowhere. His spidey-senses always alerted him of the upcoming danger.

Once they reached the top, Peter stiffened. There was only one panel of wood for all and after that, was nothing. A far drop below where Reynolds stood, neck craned all the way back to look up at them. Peter shuddered a breath as he leaned away from the ledge. Not that he was afraid of heights, but he didn’t have his web-shooters to catch him if he fell. He kept his back as close to the tower as possible as everyone gather around the ledge to climb on the loose, rope bridge to the other side.

Jack, Min Li and Luke went ahead with no break, secured in their confidence to make it to the other side without flipping and plummeting to the floor below them.

Someone from behind pushed Peter onward. “Go,” Lady Deathstrike growled, shoving him again to hop on the rope ladder as Luke climbed off to the other side.

Peter swallowed the lump down and grabbed the edges of the rope. He took a death breath and started to make his way across. Slow and steady. It was easier than he realized. His equilibrium made it possible for him to climb it without even wobbling the rope and disturbing the balance. Peter smiled, pleased with himself on not falling over.

Until the nape of his neck prickled. His hairs stood straight up in attention. Something bad was about to happ—

Gravity sucked Peter right in the middle. The rope underneath went limp and fell, and Peter with it. He scrambled, hand slipping off the rope and now, he was free-falling. He instinctively tried to shoot out a web to stop his crashing descent, but remembered he no longer had access to his life-support gadgets.

Plummeting, Peter tried to find a way to stop the madness, but he only thought of his aunt. Would they even tell her what happened to him?

Not that anything happened to him. Peter never hit the floor. Instead, he landed in the arms of Mr. Reynolds, who hovered in the middle of the obstacle course. And he looked positively pissed off.

“Yuriko!”

Peter titled his head back to see Lady Deathstrike leaning over the ledge from where she stood. She was quite far away, but Peter heard her whimsical voice, “My bad."

Reynolds fumed. “Yuriko! Powers!”

“What did I do?” boomed John Powers from above. “I didn’t cut the rope!”

“But you insinuated it,” Reynolds retorted as he flew up. Peter grabbed onto the man as they shot up to the top of the tower, becoming level with everyone.

Peter saw everyone and they all saw him, cradled like a baby. He saw Lady Deathstrike and Powers, smirking and quietly chuckling. He looked to Jack, Luke and Min, who stared at him impassively.

He wished Reynolds put him down. Maybe somewhere  _away_ from all of them.

Reynolds finally directed his gaze to him. “You okay Peter?”

“Fine.”

Reynolds frowned, brows bunched in confliction. “I think you’re done for today.”

Another ruckus of cackle cracked the sound. “The itsy bitsy spider needs its bitty?” laughed Powers, slapping his kneecap. “Needs a blankey and some snuggling?”

Reynolds pressed something on his wrist. Instantly, Powers screamed and collapsed on his knees, tipping over so that he banged his head hard against the plank. Peter jerked at hearing the man’s piercing scream, but Reynolds clutched tight to keep him still.

“Anyone else have something to say?” Reynolds questioned as he eyed the group. “What about you, Yuriko?”

Lady Deathstrike did not dare to glance at Powers, who continued to whimper on the floor beside her. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice much more somber than it was previously.

Reynolds huffed, but accepted the apology. “Continue with the course,” he ordered. "Good luck trying to get to the other side without the rope though."

With that comment, Reynolds swooped back down to ground floor and slid Peter onto his feet. “I’m sorry about that, Peter,” the man apologized. “Powers likes to pull pranks like that every now and then, but… I hoped he wouldn’t do it to you. I’m sorry.”

Peter pulled away from Reynolds. Apologizing didn’t fix anything. Or telling him they wanted to help him. Or promising to keep him safe. Their words fell flat to him. Meant nothing.

He looked around, searching for the door. Spotted, he darted for it, but Reynolds surprisingly blocked him. No—that wasn’t surprising.

“Slow down a bit, Mr. Parker,” Reynolds advised, taking Peter’s arms to hold him in place. “Can’t go running off. You still need to finish your set."

Peter stared, baffled. "You said I was done."

“With this course," Reynolds said as he nudged his elbow in that direction. "I may have started too big for you. Here—follow me. I'll take you to a smaller course.”

The smaller course wasn't challenging at all. Peter found swinging around New York to be much harder than the one Reynolds had him complete. He climbed over the shorter wall, hurdled over different heights with ease and slid through tunnels without pausing for a breath. When he completed it the first time, Reynolds didn't believe it and made him do it again. And again. And again. Peter stopped counting how many times he completed the course. No matter what he did (if he went faster or did something different), Reynolds always ordered another round. It got to the point, Peter's knees wouldn't stop shaking. Even at that point of exhaustion, Reynolds told him to do it one more time. 

When finished, Peter's knees gave way and he fell onto the mat, gasping. 

A shadow blanketed over him. "Slower breaths," Reynolds advised. "Deeper too."

Peter did. He breathed deep and let out slow, but the dizziness and fatigue didn't wear off. 

“Good," Reynolds commended. "Now, on your feet. You can't stay down there forever.”

Peter took a minute before he pushed himself up, legs a bit wobbly as they kept him from toppling over. Once he fixed himself upright, Reynolds gave him a congratulatory smile.

“Excellent work, Mr. Parker," he said, pleased. "Sorry to push you there, but you need to work on endurance. Sometimes, fights can carry out longer than one wants it." He paused as if waiting for Peter to reply, but Peter said nothing. "Well, let's see if the others finished. Then, we can finish up and have dinner.”

They others were done, waiting at the end just as Powers dropped down from the rope. Powers glared at Peter, a sinister spark lit up in the man's eyes and Peter opted to move to the opposite side, away from Powers. 

Reynolds congratulated all of them. They didn't beat their record ("For obvious reasons," said Reynolds as he looked to Powers and Lady Deathstrike), but they might one day. For now, the team needed to finish their day with a five-mile run on the indoor track.

Peter's mouth dropped. More exercise? Running? Five miles?! Was he the only one who thought it was extreme?

Apparently not, as everyone hustled from the obstacle course to the track.

“Get going, Peter,” called Reynolds when Peter didn’t join the others on the track. “Don’t fall behind.”

* * *

Natasha Romanoff drew out a long, depressing sigh. The last few months were stressful. Actually, only one day was extremely stressful, but the fallout was an opening wound that never seemed to heal.

She missed her friends. Whenever she thought about them, a warm fondness brewed in her chest. She remembered Steve, how kind and thoughtful he was of everyone around him. Or Bruce, who’s gentle, shy-like persona was the opposite of his Hulk identity. She missed Bruce’s excitement over nerdy things where she listened to his voice drone on and on, not caring at all to stop him. She wished Clint never left. Her partner in the field and her best friend. He always knew what to do or say in situation. Clint was someone she could trust to catch her if she needed it. Then there was Thor, who also had a smile on his face even in the face of grave danger and death. Never one to back away from a fight and always the first one to initiate a party (after Stark). And always seen chugging down the beer, showing off his better tolerance.

God, she missed the group. The original Avengers. The six of them, facing off against those who threatened Earth. The group, while not always stable, worked well together when needed. They bonded well when moral philosophy was put aside and had no quarrels being in each other’s company.

Those times were gone now. Stark and Rogers made sure of it. As did Ross and the rest of the world. The old Avengers were gone. Dissembled and forgotten.

She shouldn’t be sad. She picked her side. She chose the right side. Still—she missed the old days. Didn’t everybody?

“Careful with your thoughts, Romanoff.”

Nat turned to find Reynolds had joined her. She didn’t know the man well enough to be friendly, but she nevertheless offered respect to him. After all, he was considered a dangerous liability according to Fury’s files.

“Careful about what?” Nat challenged, face fixed in a stoic mask.

“Your sympathy is showing,” Reynolds returned. “I’m sure Mr. Stark wouldn’t be too happy to know you have some remorse about what happened to your old friends.”

Nat dangerously frowned at the man. “You question my loyalties.”

“You were close with Rogers, if I remember correctly,” Reynolds responded. “Barton too. Are you not the godmother of his children?”

Nat wished she could punch the man, but doing so would only break her hand. “I was,” she admitted and pivoted to face him, arms crossed. “If Stark has a problem, he can talk to me. Doesn’t need to send a goon to do it.”

Reynolds snorted. “I’m no goon,” he said, grinning in humor at the idea. “Only wanted to let you know to be careful. If I know, I’m sure Stark knows too."

He repositioned himself, relaxed more than normal as he nudged his head at the indoor track below. “I noticed you were watching the recruits today. What did you think?”

There was no point in denying it. She came down up the top levels to watch, but not the group. Only one person captured her attention.

“Stark recruited a boy.”

“He did,” Reynolds acknowledged.

Nat’s mouth pinched into a straight line. “We stooped to child soldiers, now?”

The man sighed heavily, shoulders falling when he breathed out. “If we didn’t, they would,” he commented. “Rogers would have found him and taken him.”

“Steve didn’t though,” Nat pointed out. “He had the chance, but didn’t.”

Captain Steve Rogers would never drag a kid into battle. He would never even consider recruiting a child to fight on his behalf. War was not for children. Never would be.

It seemed Reynolds didn’t share the same ideology. “His loss then,” he remarked. “In any case, Stark spared the boy. The kid could be wasting away in the hole instead of being out and about.”

Nat arched her brow. “You call this freedom?”

Reynolds’s gaze sharpened on him. “Again, Romanoff, your sympathies are showing,” he warned before gruffing. “Don’t worry about the boy. He’s being well-cared for.”

“I saw,” Nat nearly darted from her spot to save the boy after the rope was cut. She only stopped when Reynolds caught him. “One day in and he almost plummets to death.”

“He’s fine,” grunted Reynolds with a scowl on his face. “He was in no real danger.”

“I bet he didn’t think that.”

Reynolds glared, unappreciative of her observation. Like Tony, he was not used to being challenged or rebuked. Especially from those who lacked any enhanced powers. Power-headed individuals never took criticism well.  

“The Parker boy is none of your concern,” Reynolds rebuffed, his hefty arms folded in front of him. “Mr. Stark gave him to me. He’s my responsibility.”

Nat said nothing, but thought of everything. Looking back at the runners, she watched the boy jog the laps in solitude. She understood the feeling and secretly hoped the boy was strong enough to survive what was to come.

A beep directed her attention to the watch on her arm. Time to go.

Before she left, she had one parting statement to give. “A bit of advice about children,” Nat said, purposefully lowering her voice to force Reynolds to listen carefully to her, “they tend to rebel.”

Flashing a cocky smirk at Reynolds’ peeved face, Nat spun on her heel and strode away. Reynolds may think he had things under control, as did Tony, but from all the years she worked as a spy and assassin, Nat knew one thing – All empires fall. All kings go down. All ages die. It only takes a spark of rebellion to do it.

* * *

The last mile was brutal, but Peter finished, crossing the line with barely cohesive thoughts. All he wanted was water and to sit down. Even then, those luxuries were denied to him. He was told to stay standing and follow the other men to the locker room to shower and change.

It was dinner time.

Peter followed them, but came to an awkward halt when the older men stripped to jump in the open shower. He was not used to showering in front of other people—naked. Even in school, they never stripped to their birthday suit. Some didn’t even change. Like himself. He wore his gym attire to school on the days he had gym as did others. Being naked in front of a grown men was a new environment for him and wasn’t exactly comfortable at the idea of showering in front of them.

Unfortunately, his discomfort was noted by Powers. “What? Never been in a locker room before?” he snarked. “Hiding something, huh?”

Peter backed away, eyes darting around him to find the nearest exit.

Powers kept pestering. “You embarrassed, huh?” he laughed and laughed. “I bet you got a—”

A loud whip and snap cracked the locker room, followed by a piercing howl that reverberated along the walls of the shower. Luke Cage, stark-naked, used his towel to snap it against Power’s bare back.

“Leave the kid alone, Powers,” Luke warned. “He’s terrified enough as it is.”

“Yeah,” Jack spoke up as he joined the others, towel wrapped around his waist. “Plus, I bet you were one of those kids who changed in the bathroom stalls.”

Powers stewed over their criticism. “What’s with the gang-up, huh?” he grumbled. “It’s all in jest. Take a chill pill! Think of it as light hazing.”

“Knock it off,” Luke ordered. “You heard Reynolds. Leave the kid be.”

“Or what?”

Luke only had to take one step before his chest nearly bumped into Powers. He towered over Powers, who suddenly jumbled backwards like a cowering fool.

“Sorry, sorry,” Powers said. “Relax. Again! Only jesting in good fun.”

“Not with you,” Luke said as Jack nodded in agreement. “Kid—just hang-back until we finish. Then you’ll have it to yourself.”

Peter nodded. He wanted to thank the big, strong man, but no words came out of his mouth. He backed away and collapsed on the many benches near the lockers. He heard bits and pieces of his teammates’ conversations, but not once did they discuss him. They talked about other things: sports, films, friends they had in common and plain old rumors that Peter never heard.

As they showered, Peter sat in his dirtied, torn clothes, stinking of foul odor. His nose crinkled every time he shifted position, the sour aroma burning his nostrils. If he was home, he wouldn’t have to wait for a shower nor shower in public. His shampoo would be there in the corner, along with body wash that Aunt May thought would smell nice on him. He wouldn’t have to be sitting like a bashful idiot, staring at a vent.

Peter’s eyes widened. He sat up straight, eyes locked on the vent near the ceiling. Was what he saw real? He glanced back to the showers. The men were still in the shower room, the steam wafting out. Peter tentatively move from the bench and approached the vent.

Examining the dimensions in his head, he realized that the vent was big enough for him to squeeze through. He took one more glance back at the shower. Luke, Jack and Powers had yet to come out of the showers.

Peter speedily worked. He climbed up the wall to the vent, checking it over again from a new angle. He beamed. The vent was the perfect size. A child of his stature could easily squeeze into the ventilation while the older men’s bulkier appearance prevented them from chasing after him.

He pried his fingers into the grate, latching tight with his spidey adhesives. In a quick and easy tug, the vent came right off with little noise. Peter paused for a moment, holding his breath, but he heard no change of tone or comments from the men. They didn’t have super-hearing like him.

Carefully, Peter slipped into the air duct. It was cramped, but there was enough room for him move without feeling claustrophobic. Once fully in the ventilation system, Peter began his crawl to freedom.


	4. Visions of the Future

Peter wasted no time scuttling through the ventilation system. The quicker he crawled, the further he got away from  _them_. Plus, the faster he got out of the internment camp. Or whatever place they locked him in.

Which from what he could tell, was massive. The ventilation system was a maze of multiple air ducts and shafts. Peter’s internal compass spun wildly, pointing in every direction that he couldn’t even tell if he was upside-down or heading south instead of north. Where the hell was he?

He needed to find another grate. Check his location and find a better escape route than simply guess and hope.

As he crawled, he noted that his tracking bracelet hadn’t gone off. No shocks, pinched or a drop of drowsiness. No one realized his stealth, giving him the better chance to escape. He wonder how long that would last. 

He turned up into an air shaft, climbing further up until he came across another air duct where a gentle breeze prickled his skin. Peter turned and followed the stream of air. It led him through another round of tunnels before he came across a new grate. He stopped and listened.

There were no voices. No sounds of movement either. Only quiet. 

Peter took the grilles of the grate and did the same as he did to the vent in the locker room. It came off, the nails wobbling after being ripped right out the wall. Peter poked his head out from the vent. Quick scan, he found it was entirely empty. No furniture. No person. An open, empty room with floor-to-ceiling windows. 

Peter's eyes widened. Windows!

He checked in the direction of the door. He heard nothing and his spidey-sense wasn't going haywire. He wiggled out of the ventilation and dropped to the floor with no sound. If not trapped against his will, Peter would be amazed at what graced before him.

The setting sun dipped behind the horizon, cascading a prim bombardment of colors throughout the sky with alacrity. Receding blue and orange bled underneath the assaulting black night, dripping down onto the canopy of trees of the vast forest. The colors glazed a beautiful shine over the nearby lake, enticing Peter to go swimming.

Peter gaped at the scene. He’s never seen so much nature. As a city boy, nature was a rat scurrying down the subway tracks. He gazed a little longer at the view before he turned back to his mission. He knew better to let himself be distracted too long.

He inspected the window, checking for its thickness. It was surprisingly thick. Super thick. How many inches was the glass?

It came clear to Peter he couldn’t punch his way out of it. The other option was the door. He crossed the room, but found the door had no handle or knob. It was a sliding door with a panel attached to the wall. It looked powered down. He attempted to turn it on, but nothing made the screen come to life. It remained dark and desolated.

Peter sighed. Of course, an empty room would be sealed off.

Back to the ventilation shaft. At least, he got a better idea where he was and which direction he needed to go.

As he winded himself up to jump, a disembodied voice startled him back to the floor.

“Hello, Mr. Parker.”

Peter whipped around, eyes scanning for another person and finding only empty space. He was alone. No one was with him. Did he imagined the voice?

He went to climb the wall, but the voice returned. “You are small for a human.”

Peter spun in circles, but there was no one in the room with him. What was happening? Did they drug him? How did he not know it? Did they affect his spidey-sense? Because that would not be good for him.

“You look confused.”

Peter freaked out. “Where are you?” he half-shouted, panicking that he was going mad. “Are you… is there a web-cam in here?”

“No,” The voice said and suddenly, something came right through the window like a ghost. A red ghost.

Peter stumbled in fright at the sudden appearance of what looked like a muscular anatomy mannequin with an exquisite, god-like cape and a jeweled forehead. Was it an alien?

The alien drifted to the floor. “I am Vision.”

Peter immediately backed into the wall. “W-What are you?”

“I am Vision,” repeated the alien.

“Vision? Of what? Are you an alien?” Peter questioned. “Did you come down from that portal in New York?”

The alien—Vision—tilted his head. “I am an android,” he answered, “placed into a synthetic vibranium body.”

Peter’s eyes widened a second time. An android! An actual, living android! “Oh my god!” he geeked, removing himself from the wall. He gaped at the thing, studying it closely. “Like… you’re a living embodiment of the Internet.”

Vision’s jewel glowed. “I am more than that.”

“But, you know, like, everything, don’t you?”

Vision paused. “More or less.”

“That’s lit,” Peter uttered in awe. “So—what… I mean, how do you live? Do you eat? Can you eat? Wait—do you have to do updates or anything like that? Shoot—did I offend you? I didn’t mean to offend you. I just… I have so many questions.”

The android stretched its synthetic lips across his face. “Mr. Stark said you are a child.”

Peter’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not a child!”

That response puzzled the android. “Are you a dwarf then?”

“What? No!” Peter huffed. “I’m fifteen!”

“Is that not a child?”

“I’m a teenager!”

“A child then,” Vision concluded, drawing uncomfortably close to Peter. Did the android not care about personal space? “I’ve never seen a child before. Not up close and never talked to one.”

“Erm… yeah, this is what a, um,  _teenager_  is,” Peter didn’t honestly know how to reply to that, but then offered, “I’ve never talked to an android before.”

Vision stepped forward, almost flawless like floating over the floor rather than walking. He peered at Peter, a curious light behind those fake eyes.

“The magic,” Vision started.

“Huh?”

Vision floated even closer. “The magic, the wonder, the mystery and the innocence of a child’s heart,” he recited, “are the seeds of creativity that will heal the world.”

Peter slowly nodded, unsure what it all meant. “…okay.”

“Must be a lot of pressure on your shoulders to be that for the world.”

“Err… sure?” Peter offered, still perplexed by the android’s words.  

Vision titled his head the other way, its eerie, grey-slate eyes scrutinizing him. The intensity of the android’s inspection made Peter cringed away. Why was it looking at him like that?

“Why are you—”

“Do you know why I was created?” Vision interrupted.

Peter shook his head.

“Mr. Stark and Dr. Banner created me to protect humanity,” answered the android. “A vision of hope, if you will.”

That explained the odd name. “Okay,” said Peter. “That’s… kind of cool.”

The android let out a soft chuckle. “I think I now have a better understanding.”

“Of what?” Peter was curious what an android, who literally had the Internet as its brain, learned from him.

“Why everyone wants to keep you safe.”

Peter was taken back by the comment. Was Vision unaware he nearly died an hour ago? “What?” he had to laugh a bit, although it wasn’t a real laugh. “That’s, um… bit of a stretch.”

Vision stopped moving, planting his feet on the floor in front of Peter. “Children are the world’s most valuable resource and its best hope for the future,” it said. “If this world continues in its current direction, it’s not me who will save humanity.”

Peter waited for Vision to keep talking, but the android said nothing else. Then, the realization of the silence settled right into Peter’s gut. Oh. Oh, no, no, no, no, no…

“What?” he uttered in disbelief. Was that why they were holding him hostage? Keeping him away from his aunt? Did they want to mold him into some kind of weapon?

Peter shook his head, chills running down his spine. Warning. Warning. Warning. He needed to leave. Now.

“Yeah, I, um,” Peter said, backing away from the android. “I gotta go—”

Vision glanced up to the open vent. “Do children often climb through the vents? Is that how they get from one room to the next?”

Peter stared, wondering if this android was in need of an update. “Um… for now, it is,” he said. “Listen—I really have to go. Need to live my life. See family. Friends. That sort of thing.”

Peter backed up to the wall again, right underneath the vent. “It was nice to meet you and everything, but you know… gotta go. And, erm, I would appreciate it if you don’t mention any of this at all. To anybody,” he said. “Be a secret between us. Okay? Thanks.”

He wound himself up for the leap.

“Mr. Stark predicted you would escape through the ventilation system.”

That got Peter to freeze. “W-what?”

Vision moved his synthetic arms behind him. “Tony Stark made a bet with Colonel Rhodes that you would use the vents to try to escape,” he clarified. “Although, he predicted it would happen earlier.”

Dread and defeat chomped at Peter’s confidence. He looked back to the doors, expecting the door to blast open and Stormtroopers to swarm into the room.

Peter looked back to Vision and gulped. “He knows I’m here.”

To his surprise, Vision shook his head. “Stark is not at the compound,” he said. “He is in New York.”

“New York?”

“He had business to attend to.”

Peter glanced to the windows, the sun all melted and gone. Replaced by complete darkness Peter never seen before in his life. In the city, lights dazzled the horizon even after the sun was long gone. Lights were always there to guide him home.

A surge of jealously and anger rose up his throat. Mr. Stark was in New York. Probably kicking back in his high tower in Midtown, enjoying himself while Peter was stuck in the middle of the woods, away from his aunt to be turned into some kind of soldier for Stark.

“Right,” Peter grunted, lips pressed firm in determination. He, too, had business to take care of.

Peter jumped, snatching onto the wall next to the vent opening. As he stretched his hand out toward the vent, Vision’s face popped up in front of him, blocking his entrance into the shaft.

The surprise appearance shocked Peter into letting go of his grip. He dropped, landing hard on his back. Groaning from the prick of pain, he looked to see Vision levitating back down to the floor, taking a knee beside him.

“Are you all right, little one?”

No, Peter thought. Nothing was all right.

When Peter didn’t speak or move, Vision’s hand extended in an offering of assistance. Peter didn’t take it. He scuttled backwards, kicking away from the android. Vision pulled his hand back and watched Peter scoot further away from him.

“You do not need to be afraid of me,” Vision said. “I will not harm you.”

“People keep telling me that,” Peter said, quickly rising to his feet and backing up. “I don’t believe them and I don’t believe you.”

Vision looked at him in confusion like his words didn’t compute. “Your belief is unfounded,” he said. “My protocols prevent me issuing a lie. What I state is true.”

Peter blinked. It shouldn’t surprise him that the android could not tell a lie. As a member of his school’s robotics team, Peter should have trusted the android’s word. However, he couldn’t. Too much happened for him to trust anyone or anything in the building.

He backed away from the android until he reached the wall with the door. He reached his hand back to the panel, fingers scratching at the device for any possible way to turn it on and get out of the room.

“The door will not open,” Vision said.

Peter stopped fidgeting with the panel. “Why not?” he asked. “Did you program it to not open?”

Vision shook his head. “Mr. Stark sealed the room months ago,” he said. “It hasn’t been used since its last occupant.”

Peter was perplexed. “Who was here last?”

“Captain Rogers.”

Peter’s eyes bulged. He stopped fiddling with panel and his eyes reexamined the room. Although nothing changed, it felt like everything did. He wasn’t standing in an empty room. He was standing in an abandoned room. A room that once belonged to Captain America.

Vision noted his wonderment. “Yes, Captain Rogers used to reside in this room,” he said. “After his betrayal, Mr. Stark had everything removed and destroyed. Nothing remained and Mr. Stark proceeded to seal it up for good. Since then, it’s been empty. No one comes in or out.”

“Until me,” Peter returned.

“Until you,” Vision acknowledged with a smile.

Peter sighed as he looked to the door and then back to the vent. “I guess the vent is my only way out of this room then?” he muttered to himself before regarding Vision. “Are you going to stop me?”

“Stop you?”

“From leaving,” Peter said. “Did Mr. Stark program you to prevent me from leaving?”

Vision took a moment to answer. “Mr. Stark gave me no protocols concerning you, specifically.”

That was a relief to Peter. “Do you know the way out of this place then?”

“Yes.”

Another relief. Already, Peter’s chest felt lighter. “Great! Can you lead me to it? Does this place have like a, um, car? Is there a garage of some sort?”

He didn’t have a driver’s license and the last time he practiced driving, he nearly crashed his aunt’s car into a postal box. But, he was confident enough to drive it out of this hellhole.

Vision nodded. “Yes.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” Peter’s brain surged with happiness. “So, um… can you unlock this door and take me to the garage?”

Vision drew up to the boy. “Why do you need to go to the garage?”

“To get a car to drive out of here,” Peter explained. “Mr. Stark is holding me against my will—”

“Mr. Stark saved you.”

Suddenly, Peter’s chest tightened. The tension constricting against his ribcage. “No he didn’t!” he retorted. “Mr. Stark kidnapped me and now, he won’t let me go. I have to get out of here. Go back to my aunt.”

Vision’s eyes looked quizzical once again. “You are mistaken, young one,” it said. “You are not supposed to even be  _here_ , but Mr. Stark insisted. He spared you.”

Peter’s cheeks burned. “Spared me from what?” he demanded. “From freedom?”

“From something far worse,” Vision replied. “You are aware of the Accords, right?”

“I know about—”

“Spider-man did not signed the Accords,” Vision continued on. “Spider-man performed unsanctioned vigilantism. A violation of the Accords that 117 countries agreed and signed onto law.”

Peter bit the inside of his check, attempting to not shout and give away his position. “I didn’t know I had to sign them!” he argued. “I thought it was for Avengers only!”

“Still a law, young one.”

“So is kidnapping a child!” Peter fired back. “That’s a felony!”

“The Accords overrule such laws as it deals with enhanced individuals. Not only that, the Accords are international laws and part of the US Homeland Security division,” Vision returned with no venom at all. Again, like he was only stating simple, reasonable facts. “Mr. Stark followed protocol and the law to a certain degree. If he went by the book, you would be locked away for good.”

“Aren’t I already?” He challenged the android. It may not be the typical bars and basic furnishing, but Peter knew Mr. Stark’s alternative was not better.

Vision didn’t seem to think so. “You have far more freedom than you think, little one.”

Peter huffed, crossing his arms. “What do you know about freedom,” he said. “You don’t even have free will.”

“Free will?”

Peter wasn’t interested in diving into that philosophical mess. “If you won’t help me, that’s fine,” he said, resorting to his first tactic of escape. “I’ll get out on my own.”

Peter walked passed the android and headed up for the vent. Before he could leap for the opening, a red beam of light shot out and hit the ceiling right next to the vent. Peter staggered, gluing himself to the floor as he watched the vent spark and smolder.

He whipped around and saw Vision. The man’s jeweled forehead glowed bright.

“Did you just shoot a laser at me?” Peter flabbergasted in an accusatory tone. “I thought you said you can’t hurt me?”

“I am sorry,” said Vision, remorseful. “I prefer to avoid the use of violence, but I must follow my main protocols.”

“Which is what again?” Peter asked as he originally thought his main protocol was to save humanity. Yet, it didn’t stop the android from shooting a beam of hot light at him.

“I must protect humanity at all costs,” Vision said. “That includes keeping the future safe. I am sorry, Peter Parker, but I cannot let you risk it.”

Peter stared angrily at the android. What did he know about life or the future? It’s not written in stone yet! “You might know everything, but you can’t predict the future,” he argued. “And I am not interested in Mr. Stark’s future.”

Peter lunged for the smoky vent again, but Vision blocked his path, forcing him to leap off to the side, near the windows.

Vision turned to him. “You should be concerned, little one,” he said. “The ways of the world is not as optimistic as you might think.”

Only adults ever saw the gloom of the world, Peter thought as he once again tried to make another escape attempt. Vision was there again, shooting a beam of light right by his foot. Did the android not care that it almost took off his foot?

Peter backed up against the wall, coming to a dreaded conclusion that it will all end. Vision probably already alerted the others and the door would open to a mass wave of armed guards, ready to drag him back to the pit.

Vision floated back down, its eyes scanning him. “You should eat. Your glucose levels are not—”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t care.”

“Starving to death is not a pleasant process,” Vision said. “We should get you home—”

“This isn’t my home!”

Vision stopped. “Is it not?”

“No!” Peter scoffed at the mere suggestion the place was his home. He would  _never_ call this place home. “My home is Queens. Queens, New York!”

Vision paused, his eyes glowing in the now dark room. “I am sorry you feel unwelcomed here,” he said. “It was not our intentions to make you feel miserable.”

Peter was unable to withhold a snort. “And yet, you don’t care too much that it happened,” he muttered, pressing close to the glass.

The glass! Peter felt the chill of the window touching his skin. He remembered how thick it was, how he would be unable to break it with a single punch. He glanced back to the jeweled forehead of Vision. An idea sprouted in his mind.

Peter inched more to the center of the windows. “I’m not staying here.”

With barely a plan structured in his mind, Peter enacted it. He jumped, pretending to reach for the vent at an angle he knew Vision would strike. He only hoped Vision aimed correctly and that his laser could burn right through the thick glass.

The red beam shot right on target. Peter dropped and it zapped right into the glass. Peter felt a gush of wind rush into the room. Without a second thought, Peter leapt to his feet and sprinted full blast at the cracked window.

So many things could go wrong. Without his web-shooters, he was certain the fall to the bottom would end painfully. If it got him out, then Peter would deal with pain.

He heard Vision shout to him, but Peter already plowed right into the broken glass. At impact, the glass shattered, cutting and scraping his exposed skin. He covered his face, but he tasted specks of glass on his lips as he began his free-fell. The ground rushed to him. Again, as if instinct, Peter tried to shoot off a web. All he got was bleeding cuts. He had no safety net again. Nothing would break his fall.

He prepared for the crash-landing. He wasn’t too far from the ground to begin with. After all, he had far too many dumpster dives from failed web fluid to know he could walk off this brunt landing. He saw the individual grass stems from the lawn, picking up the lightening bugs flaring up and he kept going. Face plants on the grass was far better option than a face plant on cement. Peter knew from personal experience.

His spidey-sense inflamed his mind, telling him of the upcoming danger in case his eyes failed him. Peter winced and shut his eyes nonetheless as the grass came close to his face. He didn’t need to see it. He got the picture.

A gush of rapid air came flying out of nowhere and knocked into him. Peter coughed from the hard impact and his spider-sense pounded in his head as if he truly did land on the grass. When he cracked his eyes open, he saw the grass drawing further and further away, becoming a mass of green below as he was sung into the dark, glittering sky.

Peter yanked his head up and saw Vision. The android caught him and flown up away from the ground. Away from his chance of escaping.

Peter wrestled in the man’s hold, trying to throw himself off, but Vision, like Mr. Reynolds and Simon, resisted against his attempts. “Let me go!” he screamed. “You’re hurting me!”

He thought that would work. If he told the overprotective android that he was hurting him, maybe it would let him go. Peter was wrong. Instead, Vision shifted his hold, making Peter feel far more comfortable than in the previous hold.

That was unfortunate.

Vision flew around the building, giving Peter a better look at the internment camp. It was massive. Far bigger than he imagined. Was that… an outdoor pool? Tennis courts? Basketball courts? Wait… even a dock with boats and jet skis? What was this place exactly?

Vision slowed and came to a landing pad. He still had Peter in his arms as he walked back into the building. Much to Peter’s dismay, Simon was there. He stood in the middle of the room, casual, as he waited for their approach.

Peter’s spider-sense triggered him into a drastic reaction. He flopped and kicked his arms and legs, doing everything he can to shove Vision off him. To fall to the floor and attempt another jump, but then a prick on his wrist drew his attention away from his fight.

It came from the identification bracelet. It… it…

Oh no. Peter’s muscles went slipshod and all of his commands were ignored. Like his body wasn’t connected to his mind. They drugged him. They finally drugged him after teasing him with so many possibilities to escape.

With Peter nothing but a sack of bones and muscles, Vision handed him off to Simon. “Do not be too hard on him,” Vision requested of Simon.

Simon roughly took Peter. “It is not my decision,” he answered. “It is Mr. Reynold’s decision. He is in charge of the boy.”

Without further ado, Simon whisked Peter away, back into the building. Peter pouted as his head lulled back and over Simon’s arms. He rolled his eyes back, spotting the android in the corner of his vision. The android watched them, face expressionless. The android didn’t say a word.

Peter wanted to scowl at the android. Never in his life did he ever believe he would hate a living artificial intelligence. Another disappointment.

Simon paused for a moment, pivoting a bit to look back at the android. “Before I forget, Mr. Stark wants you to remind Rhodes that he owes him two hundred dollars.”

And with that one last comment, Simon re-entered the awaiting elevator as it ordered it take them back to the lower levels. Once again, Peter watched the world close before him, no longer in reach as he was sucked back down into the depths of hell.


	5. Fainting Head First

To Peter's immense surprise, he didn't get in much trouble for his escape attempt. Reynolds only sent him to his boring room for the rest of the night. They provided dinner for him in his room, but Peter didn't eat it. In fact, he used the bread roll to smash out his frustrations. 

Peter didn't go to bed either. His irritation left him restless, sleep out of reach. He paced around his room, going over his failures in his head. When walking in circles wasn't good enough, Peter dangled himself from the ceiling. Sometimes, hanging upside-down gave him the concentration he needed. He thought back to what occurred with Vision. The android claimed to have no specific instructions regarding him, yet it was adamant about keeping Peter under lock and key here on this forsaken compound. Something about the future needed saving and other utter nonsense. The future always needed saving.

His awareness and lack of sleep must have caught the upper management's attention because Peter's spidey-sense triggered an alert right before a prick on his wrist alerted him that he was about to lose all strength. Everything loosen and Peter dropped to the floor. Without any control of his body, he laid in his crumbled form on the floor, wondering if someone was about to come into his room and take him somewhere. 

After a half-hour passed, Peter came to the conclusion no one was coming. The bracelet must only alert them that he was awake, believing that drugging him would put him to sleep. It didn't. Peter stayed wide awake, his thoughts circling around the bracelet that was the scorn of his life. He remembered Dr. Cho's warning about removing the bracelet. Any attempts resulted in pain or helplessness. 

While waiting to regain control of his body, he brainstormed possibilities of removing the wretched object. He noted his disobedience resulted in being drugged. Not tortured with a million electric currents like what Reynolds did to Powers. Maybe Mr. Stark banned physical torture for him? Or, maybe, they believed drugging was a far easier way to manage him. Whatever the reason was, Peter knew his first task was to find a way to counter the drug. 

Easier thought than done. 

His muscles tingled and Peter slowly moved his limbs. With great effort, he picked himself up from the floor and collapsed onto the bed. Again, he didn’t fall asleep. His mind buzzed alert with theories and plots for hours until he heard a clank at his door. Peter turned his head to find Simon, dressed and clean-shaven, entering the room. 

"Time to get up," he ordered.

Peter rolled off the bed and grabbed a change of clothes. Simon led him to a shared bathroom to get ready for the day. He wasn't the only one up on his floor. Not many, but a few roamed about the bathroom, jabbering and grooming themselves for the day. When he walked in with Simon, they all stopped and gawked at him. Almost bewildered by his mere appearance. Peter swallowed and croaked out a squeaky hello. Some snickered and the others were perplexed, but they all carried on with their own lives. 

Simon shoved Peter to the sink and ordered he clean himself up. Peter did as told. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and tried to fix his hair. He quickly changed, ready to start another round of intense physical training. Simon dragged him out, although Peter found it unnecessary. He wasn't going to run blindly. He already tried it and it proved to be ineffective. 

Taking the elevator up a few floors, Peter was dropped off in a room with a few rectangle tables and swivel chairs. No one else was with him. He stood alone among empty tables with empty chairs. Peter wrapped his arms around him as he entered the room further. He hated being alone.

Time ticked by and no one showed. Peter thought of going back to the door, but the shine of the bracelet reminded him of a worse predicament. With not else to do, he sat in one of the swivel chairs and waited. He guessed the others were running late. 

It only took another minute upon sitting that the door opened and a lanky man, with loose, gold-colored ringlets that were styled by a bed than products. He dropped his messenger bag on one of the tables with a loud thud as he ran his hand underneath a runny nose. The man breathed heavily and dug through his bag, pulling out books, notebooks and loose paper that fell out without his permission. The man grunted, shoving the documents back into his bag before sealing it up. 

His fingers carded through his hair, turning around to face the rest of the room. Or in the situation, only Peter. "Oh—hello," he said, his accent different from a typical American. Maybe British? "Didn't see you there. Sorry."

Peter only shrugged his acceptance as the man leaned against his own table. "So, um... is this it?" the man questioned. "Do you know if more people are coming?"

Peter shook his head. He had no clue about any of it. 

The man sighed and reached his hand back into the bag, pulling out a tablet. A few minutes of tracking down some information, the man muttered under his breath shut it down.

"Right," he said, putting the tablet aside. "Guess it's only you."

Peter's brows inquisitively raised. No one else was joining him?

The man drew his own swivel chair and pulled it right across from Peter. "Guess I should introduce myself," he said with a sniffle. "I'm Leo Fitz. I'm your... instructor?"

Peter stared, brows remaining arched in quizzical form. Instructor in what?

Leo Fitz paused. "Professor?" he tried again. "Teacher? What do you kids call them these days?"

"Err... teachers," Peter answered. "It's never really changed—"

"Teacher it is then," Leo declared and he took a seat. "Look—I'll be honest, I'm not a teacher. Never was. But, apparently, because I know math and understand science that makes me qualified to be a teacher."

Peter wasn't convinced by the man's reasoning. If that be the case, anyone working with Mr. Stark would be qualified. Why him? Who was Leo Fitz? Everyone else happily told Peter what their task was. Mr. Reynolds was his commander. Dr. Cho his doctor. Nellie his nurse. Simon his… handler? Prison guard? They all had certain talents that made them capable in handling him and his abilities. Leo Fitz, acting as an ordinary guy, didn’t make any sense.

It made Peter wary of the man. He leaned away as Leo drew closer to the table, bringing over the books and notebooks. 

"So, um... where's your stuff?" Leo questioned.

"I don’t have anything," Peter said. "They didn’t give me anything or tell me anything."

Leo rubbed a hand over his face. "Of course," he muttered and he passed a notebook and a pen to Peter. "Take these. And..." He started flipping through one of the textbooks he brought along to the table. "What grade are you? Seventh?"

Peter fumed at insult. "I'm fifteen!" 

Leo's eyes widened slightly. "Sorry! Sorry... fifteen, okay, okay, um… what's that? Eighth?"

"I'm a sophomore."

Leo flipped directly toward the end of the book. "All right, Year 11. Got it. I mean... a high schooler? Is that the American term? Can't remember," he said as an off-handed comment. "What's the last thing you remember learning?"

And that was how Peter spent the first five hours of his day. He sat in a room, listening to Leo try to teach him mathematical physics. Peter didn't have the heart to tell him that he already learned number theory two years ago. The man stumbled over trying to explain it in terms more appropriate to an elementary student. In fact, it made the theory far more confusing than necessary.

Peter guessed no one informed Leo that he’s a student of Midtown, Queens most exclusive STEM school. Everything Leo went over Peter already knew. The maths, sciences, history and grammar were all topics he was quite familiar with and knew how to use. 

While Leo droned on, Peter opted to spend the time to think. Most of his thoughts were about escaping and the others were of his Aunt May. Vision mentioned Mr. Stark went to New York. Did the trip have to do with his aunt? What did he tell her? Do to her? Peter wanted to know, but he already knew no one would indulge his questions. If anything, they would reply that it was "handled". Whatever that meant. Peter's gut told him it wasn't good though and it kept Peter on the verge of a nervous breakdown. 

His schooling ended in time for lunch. The cafeteria was big and, to Peter's immense surprise, it had windows! Like a moth to a light, Peter skipped the food line and went directly to the windows. His eyes recognized the blue sky, clouds and trees huddled around the buildings. He eyed the people walking around the grounds, some meandering and others nearly running. The compound looked different with the sun at the highest peak. It looked more... normal. 

Peter grabbed his lunch, but ate little. His stomach too upset to keep anything down. He needed to eat if he wanted the little cuts on his hands and arms to heal, but it made him feel sick. Was it normal to be sick of food?

Lunch ended and training began. Peter rejoined the team, doing his best to ignore the quick glances thrown at him by Luke, Jack and Powers. Especially, Powers. He had a nasty sneer as he watched Peter do push-ups, pull-ups and burpees. It sent chills down Peter’s spine.

Mr. Reynolds partnered them off. Peter was thankful to not be Power’s partner. Instead, Mr. Reynolds teamed him up with Luke Cage, the silent, brooding individual. Luke didn’t say much and his muscular form was a bit intimidating to Peter, but ever since he defended him in the locker room, Peter felt more comfortable with him than anyone else in the group.

Unfortunately, Peter’s content was diminished severely upon finding out that he and Luke had to complete an obstacle course while avoiding being blasted off by a floating robot that circled the course.

Lady Deathstrike and Silk Fever went first and finished. No problems. Course completed like it was a walk in the park.

Next, him and Luke.

Luke turned to him. “Stick with me, kid. Don’t try to be brave.”

Peter frowned at the remark. He didn’t appreciate the underlying doubt Luke had. He may be a kid, but he packed a punch. He zipped through New York City on webs he created! He fought bad guys with guns and knives… and stopped a vicious dog from attacking a child. He’s brave. He wasn’t afraid.

On Mr. Reynolds’ mark, they took off. The first part was easy, jumping over the hurdles came naturally to Peter. He beat Luke to the end of it, but waited, not wishing to leave Luke behind as he threw his big body over the bars. Once Luke caught up, they got onto the monkey bars and swung from rung to rung over a pit of laser beams that would immediately disqualified them if touched. The flying bot tried to shoot them, get them to lose their grip, but Peter didn’t let go. Although, he almost got hit, which surprised him. Why was his reaction speed slow?

As the continued on, Peter felt weaker. He noticed his speed slowed and his breathing got heavier. Even his vision blurred on occasion, but when he blinked, it corrected itself. It worried Peter that his strengths were faltering on him. Since the bite, he’d never been this exhausted that even his bones were barely holding together.

Just get through the course, Peter reminded himself as he kept up with Luke. Once they finished, he would have time to recuperate.

They neared the finish line of the course, much to Peter’s relief and joy. All that was left was a wall climb and a rope traverse. Normally such obstacles wouldn’t trouble him, but with his panting louder and knees shaking, he hesitated on the idea of climbing it. Not only that, his head felt funny and his eyes kept drooping. Probably from the lack of sleep. He should have slept.

“Come on,” Luke jerked Peter to the wall, hoisting him up. “Climb!”

Peter did as ordered. Using his spider abilities, he climbed up. The further up the wall he went, the heavier his head became. He paused, dropping his forehead against the cool steel. It felt good, but it didn’t soothe the pain away.

“What are you doing?”

Peter looked to the voice, staring at Luke Cage, who suddenly was right next to him. No—Luke was now ahead of him. How?

“Don’t stop!” Luke growled as a bot came swirling over to them. “Move!”

Luke snatched Peter’s arm and pulled him as the bot shot right at the exact spot Peter was resting. Peter gaped, wondering how his spidey-sense missed that oncoming danger.

Luke let go of his arm. “Climb!”

Peter took a step, but his vision pixelated. Things became fuzzy and darkness crept near the edges. He pushed passed the vision issues, gluing his hand to the wall to pull himself up, but he felt wobbly. Like his body was being shaken and his vision zapped out.

He tried not to panic. Stick to the wall, he told himself. He blinked to restore his vision.

It was still dark.

* * *

“Well, Mr. Parker, can’t say I’m surprised you fainted.”

Peter was in the medical wing again, listening to Nellie give him his diagnosis. Apparently, he didn’t simply blink like he thought. He passed out. Nellie told him he was lucky Luke had quick reflexes to catch him before he plummeted head-first into the floor.

Nellie pulled up his chart on the hologram, displaying the results to Peter. “Your glucose level is extremely low,” she told him. “Practically diminished.”

She pushed her rolling stool to the medical cot. “You suffered from metabolic failure,” she explained to him. “It’s where you—”

“I’m not eating enough,” Peter stated, understanding the diagnosis without explanation.

He looked to his arm, where there were at least five IVs penetrating his skin. Each IV was filled with TPN, a nutrient fluid to help him recover and stabilize his glucose. When he first woke up, he had about fifteen TPNs hooked into his arm. Nellie said he had more, but they were emptied and tossed out.

Nellie nodded to Peter’s correct analysis. “No, you’re not. I’ve been told by staff that you aren’t actually eating the food provided to you. Is there a reason? Do you have a specific dietary lifestyle?”

Peter shook his head. “No, I just… I can’t eat. I get sick,” he said, rolling in his lips in contemplation. “Maybe it's the drug? The one you guys keep using on me?”

"It won't be that, I'm afraid," Nellie dismissively waved. "That won't affect your digestive system."

Peter frowned at Nellie's blatant deflect of the his worries. "Something does as I can't eat without feeling sick."

She tapped her pen against the side of her face. Her eyes narrowed and focused on Peter's face as if trying read his own thoughts through his eyes. Peter blinked and remained passive in his expression to not show his hands. 

After a long moment, Nellie's eyes brightened in understand. “I see,” she said, morphing into a concerned expression. She powered down the medical chart. “I understand this is a difficult time for you and it’s a lot to process this sudden change of environment. I can ask Dr. Cho to set up a weekly meeting with a therapist—”

Peter stopped listening to her. Seeing a therapist wasn’t going to do him any good. He already knew what his issues were and he knew how to fix them too. The only problem was they denied him the ability to do so.

“We can call in a child specialist,” Nellie rambled on. “I’m sure Mr. Stark will be willing to provide—”

“No!”

Nellie jumped at the sudden outburst, her brows shot up her forehead. “O-kay,” she drew out, turning in her seat. “I think I understand the problem.” She folded her arms on her lap and leaned in, eyes locked on Peter. “It’s understandable that you feel some _resentment_ towards Mr. Stark. What he did may be confusing to someone of your age—”

“Sorry, but I’m not interested in hearing how Mr. Stark is really saving me from some worse fate,” Peter interrupted in a hurry. “What I want is to talk to him.”

Nellie stared, dumbfounded. “You want to… you want to talk to _him_?”

He nodded. “I need to talk to him,” he implored. “Please! It’s important. Tell him or tell someone that I need to speak to him.”

Nellie looked hesitant. “Um, Mr. Parker, I’m afraid that cannot be possible.”

“Why not?” Peter demanded. “He talked to me before.”

“He’s not here at the moment.”

“When he gets back then.”

Nellie brushed her hair away from her face. “He’s a busy man,” she countered. “He doesn’t have much time to chat. If you need to talk to someone, I can—”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone else,” Peter said as he was quite aware no one would do anything for him unless Mr. Stark directed them. “I _need_ to talk to Mr. Stark.”

Nellie sighed. Her whole body deflating into the seat. “Why don’t you talk to Mr. Reynolds first?” she suggested. “Then, if you’re not satisfied, then Mr. Reynolds can talk to Mr. Stark about whatever is bothering you. How about that?”

Peter resigned from his efforts. Nellie and presumably others, wouldn’t help him get into contact with Mr. Stark. Too obedient to stray from the party-line.

He sunk back into his cot, tugging the blanket over him. “Thanks for the TPNs, but I think I’m going to try to sleep again.”

Nellie went to speak, but changed her mind. She wheeled away from the bed. “Okay,” she said, packing up her belongings. When she got to the door, she paused. “If you need to talk, Mr. Parker, my door is always open.”

She turned the lights off and closed the door. Peter swore he heard the door lock. Smart call considering his recent track record on being alone.

As he adjusted his arm for better comfort, he overheard whispers that spoke loudly in his ear from the other side of the wall. Two people were speaking. Nellie and Simon.

“ _Report?” Simon demanded._

_“He needs to eat more,” Nellie replied. “Best you double-check he eats next time.”_

_“What am I? His babysitter?”_

_“Do you want to report to the superiors that the boy died from starvation under your watch?”_

There was a long pause. Peter waited, breath held so as to avoid missing anything.

_A heavy sigh followed the long pause. “I’ll make sure he eats,” Simon grumbled. “What’s next? Do I have to sing him a goddamn lullaby?”_

_“No—but… I think he needs to speak to someone. He’s not psychologically handling the transition.”_

_“Not my division,” Simon said. “Besides, the kid wouldn’t talk to me anyway.”_

_“Not asking you.”_

_“Then who?”_

_“Well… he wants to speak with Mr. Stark.”_

Peter jolted upon hearing an uproarious laughter.

_“Yeah… that’s not happening,” Simon softened to a chuckle. “Mr. Stark is a busy man.”_

_“I said that to him,” Nellie said. “But, maybe, because he’s a kid—”_

_“Nope. Mr. Stark is hands-off. It’s why he assigned the kid to Reynolds. If the kid has problems, he’s to talk to Reynolds. Not Mr. Stark.”_

_“I see,” Nellie said, defeated. “Well, I guess I’ll go talk to Mr. Reynolds. Tell him what’s happening. Can you stand and watch? Make sure he doesn’t—”_

_“Why do you think I’m here?”_

Peter heard the sound of footsteps breaking away, striding into the silence. Nellie was gone and Simon stood right outside his door.

He turned in his cot, thinking over what he heard. Simon’s explanation didn’t make sense to Peter. If Mr. Stark didn’t care and wanted nothing to do with him, then why all the extreme precautions to ensure he never left the vicinity? Why did he have guards at his doors? Why did he have a tracking bracelet? Why did everyone remotely care about his well-being if he didn’t matter at all to the big guy?

Peter stewed. Something wasn’t adding up. Something was amiss or certain people were being lied to. Whatever the answer, Peter knew he had to get out.

He stared at his bracelet. His current nemesis. The only thing between him and freedom. As long as it remained attached to his body, Peter stayed as a prisoner.

He turned his wrist, examining the bracelet over. It rubbed his skin irritably with each twist he made to check for any weaknesses. Breaking it would be impossible because the metal itself was unbreakable, and any damage to it would trigger the bracelet to drug him.

There was a possibility to counter the drug they inject him with, but without knowing exactly what, Peter didn’t want to risk ruining his health. It frustrated him deeply that he simply couldn’t take it off like any old bracelet.

Unless…

Peter recalled a scene of _John Wick_. It was years ago when he sat with Ned, watching the film on Ned’s laptop. Peter remembered enjoying the movie greatly, but more importantly, was a particular scene that made Ned squirm uncomfortably.

“‘That’s insane!’ Ned screamed. ‘I can never break my own thumb like that.’”

Peter didn’t think he ever would need to, but, as he lingered on the bracelet that chained him to the compound, perhaps it was time for a bit of insanity.


	6. Time to Go

Peter fell into a routine.

On Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays, Peter attended morning class with Leo Fitz for about five hours (Wednesdays and Fridays school hours were split into two-hour periods and were taught by Jemma Simmons, a biochemist), followed by lunch then a light round of training. Nights were reserved to more extraneous training and dinner. Anything in between was recreation time.

While his teammates spent their free time enjoying themselves with movies, relaxation and playing racquet ball (something Jack enjoyed and often begged Luke to join him), Peter spent his free time in the library. The compound’s library was as modern as the rest of the compound. Rows upon rows filled with a variety of books that entertained anyone who walked through the doors. Except, only a few people visited the library. Peter often found himself alone in the library, sitting at a table and reading through his stack of books he collected on different subjects. He didn’t read all of them. Most were for show to throw off anyone who may be spying on him. However, some of the books were for schoolwork, writing his essays and adding the correct number of citations as required.

Once he completed his homework, he moved onto the real reason he visited the library.

Peter checked around him before he pulled the chosen textbook from the stack. His secret research involved poring over medical texts and diagrams. He reviewed sections on broken bones and the equipment needed to correct it. Most of what he found was gruesome and painful. Good thing the spider-bite gifted him healing abilities or else he may backed out of the plan. It did worry him that if he didn’t set the bone back properly, his healing abilities may incorrectly heal his thumb.

Flipping through the books, he studied different techniques to break a bone. Peter winced at the diagram of broken bones and shivered at seeing a bone stick right out of the skin. His aim was to dislocate as to avoid breaking his bone or to have the bone pierce through his skin. He hoped his super strength didn’t break it that hard.

Peter reviewed the maneuver several times until he finally felt confident that he could do it. Once he learned of the proper technique, Peter next plotted when to enact his escape. With Vision roaming around and the entire compound controlled by an AI of some sort, Peter decided best to not make the escape indoors. That meant he needed to be outside.

And that was the problem. Peter never got the chance to be outside. During one recreation time, he headed over to one of the doors that lead to a patio, but got stopped by Mr. Reynolds. He drew Peter away with false claims of being needed in the medical ward for a check-up.

When Peter tried again, his recreation time was cut short as him and his team switched training time with another team. Peter began to think he wasn’t allowed outside. After all, he was an “at-run” risk.

Patience, he reminded himself. Keep his head down. Follow rules. Don’t act out. If he kept to those rules, they’ll believe they subdued him. His plan would take more time than he willing to wait, but if necessary, he’ll do it. He’ll do it for Aunt May.

Weeks passed and Peter stayed the good, little soldier to Mr. Reynolds’ unit. He did everything requested, but with little effort. He reigned in his abilities, never displaying the full extent of his capabilities. He needed to ensure their ignorance on the matter as he needed surprise on his side.

So, one morning, Peter received a welcoming surprise when Mr. Reynolds announced the team was going to go on a timed campus run. Everyone groaned while Peter scrunched his face in bewilderment. He looked around the gym, thinking they had to run around the gym. He was wrong.

When Mr. Reynolds handed Peter a knitted hat and a thicker sweater, Peter’s heart raced with excitement. Minutes later, he found himself gaping at the sun, sky and trees around him. He didn’t even care that the chilled nip in the air bit at his exposed neck. He was outside. Outside!

Peter laughed, his face bursting a huge smile.

Mr. Reynolds patted Peter’s shoulder with a jocular grin. “I think you’re the only person happy about doing a timed run.”

Peter squatted down to touch the grass. The green blades brushed against his fingers, his skin tickled by the gentle touch. “It feels and smells like nature.”

Mr. Reynolds laughed. “It’s not a stimulation, my boy!” he said. “Now—focus up. You need to know the course.”

Peter listened as Mr. Reynolds mapped the course to him. He nodded along, remembering all the necessary turns and passes he needed to make to complete the four mile course. Although, he was still ordered to stay close to Luke or Jack.

“Follow their lead,” Mr. Reynolds instructed.

Peter assured he would do his best to keep up with the two men. More importantly, he would do his best to stay away from Powers or Lady Deathstrike. Those two kept antagonizing him. Powers more so than Lady Deathstrike as he always went out of his way to physically bully him when no one else was watching. Meanwhile, Lady Deathstrike often use her intimidating persona to threaten him. While she hadn’t physically done anything to him yet, Peter still remembered the terrifying fall when she cut his rope.

As for Silk Fever—she didn’t give a damn about him.

Jack and Luke were the only two that tried to keep him on his feet. Protect him when necessary or give him support during his training. Though, even they didn’t like being around him very often. After all, he was a kid. No one wanted to be his babysitter as Powers teased him.

Jack gave him a wide smirk. “Stick close, kid,” he advised. “Don’t want to get lost out there.”

“Or have bullets fly at you,” Powers added as he pinched Peter’s arm, hard.

“Ow!” Peter yanked his arm away. Already, his skin inflamed from the single mark Powers made on him. “Get off!”

Peter went to shove Powers, but Luke swooped in between the two. “Piss off, Powers,” he warned. “Or you _will_ get hit with guns.”

Powers glared at Luke’s subtle threat, but Mr. Reynolds snapped his fingers for attention. “Leave the kid alone, Powers,” he ordered. “You do that again and I’ll have to report your behavior to upper management.”

Powers rolled his eyes, but he was subdued enough for Mr. Reynolds to rally everyone to the starting line.

Mr. Reynolds started the time and everyone took off. Peter jogged directly behind Luke and Jack, but he wasn’t concentrating on his pace as much as he should. Trailing behind them, Peter observed the perimeter.

At first glance, Peter noted a fence enclosing the entire perimeter. A few watchtowers speckled along the fence line, likely armed to keep intruders out. Or to keep prisoners in. Nothing was observable on the other side of the fence. All Peter saw were thickets of trees and shrubs that continued forever into the horizon. Except for the vast lake that stretched far beyond him and the building that blocked his access to the lake’s shores.

The only roads he saw directed straight to the heavily guarded, gated entrance. Taking that route would not end well. The only option he had was to jump over the fence that was not close to a watchtower. Those opportunities were few and far between from what Peter noticed.

It would be hard. The loop Mr. Reynolds sent them on only got close to the fence once and it didn’t last long. It also had a watchtower several yards away. Anyone in the tower could be spying on them, watching and waiting for them to show any signs of rebellion.

This was going to be complicated.

Peter finished his timed five-mile loop. He slowed to a jog before coming to a stop. Breathing, he turned back around to join the rest of the group as Powers was coming up to the finish line.

Mr. Reynolds wrote down all the times on his clipboard. “All right,” he said to gather everyone’s attention. The team joined around him, some upright and others still hunched over, breaths haggard. “Let’s go over the times.”

It appeared the only person who improved their time was Jack. Everyone else needed more work.

“And you, Parker,” Mr. Reynolds turned to Peter, surprising by the clipped tone in the man’s voice. “You’re hardly huffing! You’re not even sweating!”

Peter uttered a curse. Too busy taking note of his surroundings and possible escape points, he forgotten that he needed to keep his cover. It was too late to act sore and out of breath now that Mr. Reynolds noticed.

Mr. Reynolds whipped out his stopwatch. “Run again,” he said. “And this time… _try_.”

* * *

“Hey!” A pair of fingers snapped in Peter’s face. “Am I losing you there?”

Peter blinked and refocused, finding Leo Fitz in front of him. “I’m sorry… what?”

Leo took a deep breath. His shoulders rose and fell with great emphasis of a tired man. “Here—why don’t we take a quick break, shall we?” he offered. “You wanna grab a snack of something? I know for certain lunch today is some kind of fish fillet. Not appealing.”

Peter didn’t argue with the man as he followed Leo out of the classroom. Of all the time spent throughout the days, Peter enjoyed school the most. He liked Fitz-Simmons, as his two teachers are called around the compound. They were friendly, intelligent and fun to be around. At one point, Peter got in to a heated debate on Star Trek’s best captains. No one in the building would tolerate such “silliness” and it made Peter feel far more comfortable around them than anyone else.

Didn’t mean he entirely trusted them. They worked for Tony Stark and knew of his predicament; and yet, they chose to not help him. They followed their orders and ignored Peter’s well-being.

Leo found one of the mini-lounges, gesturing Peter to enter. “Help yourself!” he offered to Peter, pointing at the kitchenette counter. “There’s some fruit, protein bars and umm…” He opened the cabinets and found a small bags of chips. “And there’s chips!”

Peter helped himself to an orange and a bag of Doritos. “Thanks,” he said, plopping on the couch. He started to peel the skin off the orange. “So, um, sorry for not paying attention earlier. Had a hard work-out yesterday.”

“I heard,” Leo said, munching on a bag of pretzels. “How many times did you have to run the loop?”

“Three times.”

Mr. Reynolds was happy with the improvement in the second round, but he ordered everyone on the team to do the loop again. So, Peter ended up running fifteen miles. He was tired and sore, which made Mr. Reynolds happy. Little did he know that it also gave Peter an idea.

Leo winced. “Oy! That’s brutal,” he remarked. “No wonder you’re out of it. Well, I remember my first training. It was tough. I was a scientist, you know? Not a field agent, but I had to go through training as well.”

“You had to run fifteen miles?”

“Nah. Only six miles,” Leo answered, moving to join Peter on the couch. “I did complain. A lot, apparently. But, in the end, I’m glad I got the basic training. Helped me when I did go into the field.

“What I’m trying to say is that training sucks,” Leo said, popping a pretzel right into his mouth. “But… it’ll save your life when put in a dangerous situation. Which is basically our lives. Our world is dangerous.”

“No kidding,” Peter said, biting into an orange slice. He recalled all the times Powers tried to physically hurt him. “Yet, no one here seems to mind putting a kid right in the middle of it.”

Leo scrunched his gaze at Peter. “There are far worse things out there than here,” he said, sounding distant and disheartened. “Trust me. I know a thing or two.”

As did Peter. “What was your job before being my private tutor?” he asked. It was obvious by the man's tone that Leo was more than a simple genius for Stark. 

“A secret agent.”

Peter sat straight up. “Wait… _what_?”

Leo nodded. “Not the James Bond type of agent… well, yeah. Like him,” he said. “Well, more like Agent Q.”

“Agent Q is far cooler than Bond.”

Leo chuckled. A smile blossoming on the young man's face. “I like you, Peter,” he said. “You got a good head on your shoulders.”

Peter shrugged away the compliment as he finished off his orange. “I don’t know for how long though,” he muttered. “Mr. Reynolds certainly wants me to become some kind of trained assassin.”

“Nah—not an assassin,” Leo said, finishing off his snack. “Just a better super-hero or something like that.”

Peter raked his fingers through his hair. “Guess I’ll find out,” he said after a long moment. “Um… so, uh… you said you’re an agent, right?”

Leo nodded.

“What’s the point of all… this?” Peter circled around him. “I mean, besides running a super-hero camp?”

Leo sat, stumped upon the question. Peter waited for an answer as Leo contemplated. “Oh, um, well… you know about the Accords, right?”

Oh, Peter knew of the Accords. Knew them too well.

He nodded and Leo continued. “Well, the Accords requires enhanced individuals to be registered. Any who are not, are considered breaking the law—”

“Like the Nazis did to the Jews.”

Leo hesitated. “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” he tried to counter, but his silence afterwards did not help him at all. “Okay—it’s complicated. The world, as you know, has gotten a bit crazy. Really crazy if you’ve seen what I’ve seen. People are afraid with all these super-powered people coming out and acting without any reservations. So, Mr. Stark believed that oversight was needed. He believed that enhanced people need training to avoid catastrophes and limit causalities. So… he started all this.” Leo mimicked Peter’s circled motion. “Mr. Stark and the others hope that by creating a program to track and train enhanced people will be beneficial for everyone. Keep the world at peace and give Earth a better chance if outside forces come for them again. Like in New York.”

Peter thought it over his head. There was some logic to the argument, but not enough to make Peter agree to it. He looked down at the bracelet that kept him in line. Their implementation was barbaric and cruel.

“What about Captain America?” Peter uttered. He wanted to know what happened to the great American hero.

Leo now sighed heavily, sinking into the seat’s cushion. “Cap didn’t agree with the government,” he said. “He believed they should be above direct government control. Something about politicians shouldn’t be trusted to control the heroes. Something like that. Doesn’t make any real sense to be honest. Because politicians control the US army, you know? What’s difference?”

“What did Captain America say to that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Leo mumbled. “Something about politicians deciding who are the villains and who are the heroes and that was not fair.”

“It’s not.”

Leo stopped. The corner of his right eye twitched as his fingers curled a bit tighter on bag. “Careful, Peter,” he warned. “If anyone else heard you say that, you’ll go to the hole.”

Peter cocked his head. “The hole?” he queried. “What’s that?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

Leo shot off the couch, his hands crunching the bag into a smaller ball of trash. “We better get back to classroom,” he interrupted. “Need to finish your analysis historical significance of mercantilism.”

And like that, the break was over and Peter had to save his chips for a later time.

Leo divulged back into the studies, but Peter did not. He couldn’t. He pondered what ‘the hole’ meant. Leo’s reaction clued into Peter that it was a bad thing. Not a place to go.

Leo stayed frazzled throughout the rest of the school hours. He kept bumbling his words and apologizing for it. Peter assured him it was okay, if only to get Leo busy again so that he could focus on what he needed to do next.

Because, if he failed, Peter was sure he would learn what ‘the hole’ is.

* * *

“You must learn to disarm, Mr. Parker,” Mr. Reynolds said, positioning Peter right in front of a volunteer.

Peter was alone in the gym. The others had the time off. Peter didn’t. Mr. Reynolds made him stay behind, ushering him into a private room with gym matts as the floor.

It got him worried, being surrounded by white walls with no windows and blue cushions underneath his feet. When the volunteer agent arrived, Mr. Reynolds explained the next level in Peter’s training.

Mr. Reynolds continued talking. “Gun, knife, arrow or some sort of alien weapon,” he said, “you need to know how to disarm.”

He circled behind Peter. “You need to learn this by heart,” he said, “to the point it’s all muscle memory. Like riding a bike.”

Peter wrangled his eyebrows into a deep crevice. “I never touched a gun before.”

“You will now,” Mr. Reynolds said, taking the weapon from the volunteer. “Hold this.”

He shoved the gun into Peter’s hands. Peter cradled it his hand, tense as if waiting for it to fire out a shot. He didn’t want to hold it. His aunt and uncle always told him to never play with guns. To not even hold them.

Peter tried to return it to the agent. “Here,” he begged. “Take it, please...”

Mr. Reynolds pulled his hands away from Peter. “Hold it a little longer, Pete,” he ordered. “You need to know the feel of the gun. The weight. Look where the trigger is. See where the barrel is.”

Peter flickered a glance at it. “I’m good.”

Mr. Reynolds sighed, loudly. “Peter—you’re not going to leave here until you learn. We’ll stay here all night and into the morning if necessary.”

Peter didn’t want that, but he certainly didn’t want to hold this weapon any longer. Realizing how little choice he had in the matter, Peter humored Mr. Reynolds and acted like he checked the weapon. Yet, his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of his uncle.

An image of Uncle Ben started to burn into the forefront of his mind. Tears stung his eyes and Peter shoved the gun back to the agent. “Okay. I got it.”

Mr. Reynolds cocked an eyebrow at him, but said nothing of the hurried reaction. “Okay,” he said as the volunteer fixed his hand on the weapon. “Now that you know what the guns feels like, it’s time to learn to take one from an opponent. You will face many people who may try to hurt you with such a weapon.”

Peter was well aware. He faced down people with guns before and seen what they could do. What they could take. 

“Everyone else already knows how to disarm," Mr. Reynolds continued on. "It is best we start training you so you may participate in team missions.”

Peter was taken aback. “Missions?” he repeated. “We’re going on missions?”

“Not now,” Mr. Reynolds clarified in an easy tone. “One day, yes, and your teammates need to know they can count on you to not get caught off-guard. Understand?”

He did. Understood, but disagreed. 

Mr. Reynolds handed him off to the agent, who introduced himself as Davis. Peter didn’t know if that was his first name or not.

Agent Davis talked about the main factors in a situation when faced with a gunman. He did a minor demonstration on his own hand, pointing at his wrists and the gun to show where Peter needed to hit.

“Spin the gun away from you,” Agent Davis said as Mr. Reynolds stayed in the back of the room to observe. “The goal is to point the gun away from you. The hitman will pull the trigger once you make contact, so you need to be quick.”

He went on, telling Peter he needed to continue the energy upon spinning the gun away by twisting the gunman’s arm to the right.

“Once in that position, you can flip him over easily,” Agent Davis said. “While the hitman is on his back, take the gun.” He ended his demonstration and got into a firing position. “Let’s try it. Slow first.”

Peter hesitantly approached the gun. His eyes directed on the barrel. He suddenly recalled the spark and the smoky aroma that made him cringe away.

Agent Davis huffed. “You can’t be afraid, kid. If you’re not quick, you will be shot,” he said. “Now—try again.”

Peter did his best to push away the memories trying resurface. He came up to Agent Davis and as instructed, followed through the motions of grabbing the man’s wrist, pushing right and then twisting until he faced away from the agent, ready to flip him onto the floor.

Agent Davis tapped his shoulder to let go. “Good. Now, do it again.”

Peter did it again. And again. And _again_. Each time, he had to speed up. Move faster. Be quicker. No hesitation. Once he finally received Agent Davis’s approval, he was to fully complete the maneuver.

Peter moved with lightning speed, taking the man’s wrists and directing the gun away from him just in time to avoid being shot.

Wait... _shot_!?

The gun went off and Peter instinctively went into fighting mode. He forgone his training and went on instinct. Which, wasn’t good considering he didn’t have his web-shooters to help him. So, he flipped around the agent and with his legs, flipped the agent right onto his back before wrenching the gun out of the man’s grip.

“Stop!”

Peter froze and Agent Davis jumped back to his feet. He looked angry. “What the hell was that?”

His accusation unnerved Peter too. “I would like to know the same,” he fired back. “You shot at me!”

“Of course I did!” Agent Davis returned. “This is a life and death scenario. You have to take it seriously.”

“You still didn’t have to shoot me!”

“Then it wouldn’t be realistic,” Agent Davis argued. “I need to know how you will react if it was a real situation. Now, I know you toss away everything you learn.”

“Well, I would have—”

“You didn’t,” Agent Davis sharply interrupted. “So, now we have to do it all over again. Get back and try. This time, do what you were trained to do.”

“I’m not a circus monkey.”

“You are for now, “ countered the agent. “All right. Try again.”

Knowing Agent Davis was going to try to shoot him, Peter was better prepared. He snatched the man’s wrist and twisted the gun away. It was all quick, his anger fueling his actions that he was quicker than normal and stronger than he let on.

Peter finished Agent Davis with a hard flip, knocking the air out of the man’s lungs. Peter took the gun from the agent and flung it aside, away from them.

He towered over the agent, who was trying to catch breath. “Is that better?”

Agent Davis hacked a bit as he slowly sat up, wincing from the pain along his spine. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “You could have killed a guy if the floor wasn’t padded.”

“You could have killed me with your bullet.”

Agent Davis choked up a cough. “Well, my gun isn’t loaded with bullets. Only bean bags.”

What? Peter looked back to the weapon and then back to Agent Davis.

Agent Davis must have noticed his confusion. “What? You think I would use bullets on you, kid?” he said, through haggard breaths. “I’m not stupid to do that.”

Peter blinked and feeling some guilt for his harshness on the agent, he assisted the agent back to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

Agent Davis shrugged. “Whatever,” he said, his breathing almost normal. “Didn’t know you had that strength in you.” He took a moment, arms resting on his hips as he took several breaths. “Okay, let’s go onto the next one.”

Peter was next trained on disarming a gunman from behind him. Peter hated feeling the cold metal against his scalp. It sent shivers down his spine and a sharp jab in his heart. It reminded him of the blood, the loss of vision and…

Peter slammed his eyes shut. No, don’t think about it. Don’t think about it at all.

“This one is simple, but again, you’ll need to be quick,” said Agent Davis. “You want to turn around, and step in and under the gunman’s arm. So, do that.”

Peter followed the instructed movements and found his nose nearly touching Agent Davis’ own nose.

“Good,” Agent Davis said, acting like the closeness didn’t bother him at all. “Now, like I taught you earlier, you need to rip the gun out of gunman’s hand. Sometimes, this may require breaking a few of the gunman’s bones.”

Peter and Agent Davis practiced and practiced. Peter never broke the man’s fingers. Agent Davis kept the gun light in his hand as to avoid such injury. Peter performed well, acting like he was surrendering as Agent Davis advised before going into action.

He moved his left hand to the side of the agent’s gun, taking a right counter-clockwise circular step between the agent’s feet. He twisted the gun away from his head to Agent Davis’ head, repositioning it and ready to fire.

Agent Davis raised his hands in surrender. “Great kid,” he said, satisfied with the last practice round of Peter disarming. “Now, is the next step. It’s the hardest one of them all.”

Peter wondered what the next disarming technique would be. He imagined it involved both a gun and knife. Or disarming two people at once. Maybe that was why Mr. Reynolds stayed. Not to observe, but to be the second assailant in the lesson.

Agent Davis went into position again. “Disarm me.”

Peter followed through the maneuvers and easily thwarted Agent Davis from his gun. Gun in his hand, Peter thought that was all he had to do, although he didn’t understand why Agent Davis called it the hard part. His spidey-sense wasn’t giving him any warning of upcoming danger. So, what was the hard part of this assignment?

Agent Davis looked right into Peter. “Now… shoot.”

Peter stiffened.

Did the agent say shoot? That couldn’t be right. Peter looked from the agent back to Mr. Reynolds, hoping he would clarify what the agent said.

Mr. Reynolds nodded encouraging. “Shoot him.”

“What?”

“It’s life or death, Peter,” Agent Davis said, drawing Peter’s attention back to him. “You need to learn to defend yourself.”

“I did!” Peter said. “I-I disarmed you!”

“And now you have to pull the trigger,” Agent Davis said before he softened his voice to add, “It’s okay. Remember? Bean bags. It won’t kill me.”

Peter scrunched his eyebrows in incredulous bafflement. Were they insane? He wasn’t going to shoot him. He never… he’s not that person. He’s not a murderer.

Peter dropped the gun and let it slip from his fingers to the floor. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Agent Davis as well as did Mr. Reynolds. Agent Davis snatched the gun from the floor and pressed it back into Peter’s hands. “I know it’s hard. Shooting a person is never easy, but if you want to save lives, then it is necessary.”

“I can save lives without it,” Peter countered, handing the gun back to Agent Davis to take, but the agent grabbed Peter’s hand and forced his fingers to close around the grip.

“You’ll be dead without it,” Agent Davis argued. “You want to be dead? How many lives would save if dead, kid?”

“I’m not a killer!”

“No one is saying you are.”

Peter felt his throat constrict, eyes stinging in remembrance. “You’re making me into one!” he said. “I’m not an assassin or a solider. I’m Spider-man. I don’t kill people.”

Agent Davis huffed in ridiculousness at his statement. “I forget how the young are so naïve of the world,” he muttered. “You’re going to die out there. You’re going to let your teammates down if you get yourself killed.”

“I would rather die than be a killer!”

Peter yanked his hand away from Agent Davis and chucked the gun far away to the other side of the room. He backed away, glancing between Agent Davis and Mr. Reynolds. “I won’t kill for you,” he said to them. “I won’t be a murderer.”

Not waiting for a response, he rushed out of the training room. He didn’t hear Mr. Reynolds or Agent Davis shouting for him to come back. His spidey-sense didn’t warn him of the bracelet preparing to subdue him. So, Peter ran. 

Ran all the way back to his room.

He closed the door and lunged for his bed, gripping the pillow to his face as he screamed all the anger and pain into it. He swore he didn’t give a damn if they punished him for his insubordination or his back-talk. Didn’t care if they sent him to the mysterious ‘hole’ that Leo feared. He wasn’t going to become he wasn’t. Turn into someone he could never nor want to be. Ever.

Peter sniffled, as his strength to not think about his awful past weakened. Memories of his uncle tortured him. Images of the mugger played out, the man holding a gun as a spark lit the gun followed by the smell of smoke and the soft, punctured gasp of his uncle.

Tears slid from Peter’s eyes and dropped to the pillow. He recalled the blood, soaking through his uncle’s sweater and dripping off the man’s fingers as he reached up to Peter’s face.

_Peter… P-Peter…_

Peter blinked off another tear. He pulled the pillow to him, squeezing it hard as if it was his uncle. Squeezing him tight to keep the life from escaping him.

He started to shake as the last memory played out in his head. The mugger running. Curious people gathering. Uncle Ben gasping. Peter crying and crying.

He didn’t go to dinner that night. Opted to stay in his room for the rest of the night. He was certain people were aware of what happened. Certain he would get in trouble for it tomorrow, but as he already declared, he didn’t give a damn. He was not going to become a killer for them. For Mr. Stark.

With great power comes great responsibility.

Peter’s eyes turned down to his wrist where the bracelet was chained to his wrist. The time was now. He could no longer wait. He had to get out.

* * *

Today was the day.

Peter held out another week after his failed training session with Agent Davis. It only took the next morning afterwards for Mr. Reynolds to apologize to Peter for the pressure of having him to “kill”.

“You are young and maybe we were a bit hasty with it,” Mr. Reynolds tried to apologize as he sat on Peter’s bed, explaining their reasonings for trying to get him to fire a gun. “We discussed and thought it better to take that part of your training and hold off. Try other things first before we get there. Okay?”

Peter played along. He thanked Mr. Reynolds and apologized for his behavior. Mr. Reynolds accepted and left him to get ready for school.

Now, a week passed and Peter kept up the act. He acted dutiful, keeping to himself and tried to stay close to Mr. Reynolds as if he wanted the man’s protection. He participated in the team’s activities to show some sort of loyalty, despite Powers tripping him on every group activity or cutting him with some foreign object lying around them (at one point, Powers threw a weight at his head when benching, but Luke caught it before Peter had the time to protect himself).

The reason Peter picked today was because of the scheduled training regimen. He learned the training schedule after being housed in the compound for two months. Mr. Reynolds always scheduled Wednesdays to be their hardest day of the week. Every Wednesday, Peter’s muscles felt sore and he was truly exhausted from the grueling workouts. Plus, they always did the time runs on Wednesdays.

Peter figured it was the perfect day to set his plain in motion.

He had his early school lessons with Leo, who excitedly spoke about differential equation use in mechanical engineering. Peter and he hashed out possible designs for a time-evolution of the system’s wave function. They geeked out, coming up with ridiculous and far-fetched ideas that seemed more sci-fi than reality. But, then again, Peter had spider abilities. Anything could happen with the world changing so fast.

When Mr. Reynolds called to report to the gym, Peter kept up the charade and told Leo he wanted to try to build one of their designs. Leo laughed and responded, “We’ll see.”

They won’t.

Peter joined his team, stretching his limbs and trying to keep his head cool. He was nervous. He couldn’t fail. He spent all those days planning and plotting his escape, he hoped to succeed. He needed to succeed!

He wore his heaviest sweater, despite the temperature not being chilly at all. Better to be prepared though, Peter thought to himself. After all, he wasn’t allowed any personal items. All he owned were the provided clothes and his school notebooks and pencils. Nothing else. He wished he had more things at his disposal, but he would have to do with what he had. Which was nothing.

Peter began his workout. Luke was his spotter as he lifted weights. Mr. Reynolds had him do three sets of twenty, which was certain to leave his arms feel like jelly. After weights, they went through some combat training. Martial arts. They partnered off, switching off after each person was defeated. Peter beat Jack, Powers, Silk Fever, but failed against Luke and Lady Deathstrike.

They were at it for a few hours before Mr. Reynolds decided it was time to head outside to do the timed run.

“We’re going to do this a few times,” he warned all of them. “So pace yourself! We are going for endurance. Not speed. Got it?”

Everyone nodded. Peter curled his toes into his shoes to stop himself from bouncing around in adrenaline nervousness. He had to act tired. He needed to be exhausted.

Mr. Reynolds timed them. Peter purposefully went faster than what he was certain Mr. Reynolds wanted. He came in first, much to Mr. Reynolds surprise, but also disappointment.

“Take it easy there, Pete,” Mr. Reynolds said. “Remember—you got two more of these. Don’t need yourself dying.”

“Yes, sir.”

Peter tucked his smile behind his frown. Little did Mr. Reynolds and the others know that was part of the point. He needed them to believe he was tired. That he was being a stupid, foolish boy.

They started their second round. Peter purposefully started off fast, but half-way, he slowed himself down and hunched a bit. He forced himself to breath heavier despite that it irritated his lungs. He finished his second round, coming near the bottom end, just a half-minute before Powers.

Mr. Reynolds tsked at Peter’s downfall. “Warned you, kiddo,” he said as Peter faked hacking up a lung. “You think you can do another round?”

Peter lifted his head, spying the others jealous gaze that he got an option to back out. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Peter stood straight up, looking at Mr. Reynolds in the eye. “I can do it,” he insisted. “I can do a third round.”

Mr. Reynolds chuckled, but was pleased with Peter’s determination. “Good—all right, but slow down if necessary. Don’t need you kill yourself over it. It’s not worth it.”

Yes, it was worth it.

Mr. Reynolds got them back at the starting line. He yelled ‘go’ and they all took off. Peter pretended to try to be up front, but he slowed significantly as he continued on the final loop. He made sure he panted loudly, so that everyone around him thought he was dying of exhaustion. It got him a few curious glances in his direction, but no one bothered him.

Why would they? They thought he was going on a simple run.

Everyone passed him. Including Powers, who elbowed him. Peter knew it was coming, but he let him as to demonstrate that in his tiredness, he couldn’t even prevent Powers’ attack. It would fool Mr. Reynolds into believing Peter was truly out the brink.

Yet, he wasn’t even close. He was charged up. Ready to fly the coop.

He turned and saw it. The fence line. His spot.

It was the only area of the whole premises that was secluded from people except for when they ran passed it on their loop. The closest watchtower was a good distance away and Mr. Reynolds was far at the end to be able to stop him. No one could stop him.

He already checked if the perimeter had any hidden security that he was unaware of. There were apparently shocks and lasers that would build up if their bracelet ever got to close to the fence line. Other than that, it was free of anything nasty. If Peter jumped high enough, he would clear it and avoid the sensors that would trigger the alarms.

Peter glanced to the group. Mr. Reynolds was with the first place finishers, talking to them and not paying much attention. After all, Peter was too exhausted to pull an incredible stunt like leaping over the fence. And if he did try, his bracelet would knock him out as the fence would trigger it.

Little did they all know that Peter was a step ahead again.

It was time. He was far away from everyone else. Including Powers, who staggered into the final stretch. No one was looking at him. Time to go.

Peter grabbed his thumb, remembering the diagrams and the charts that showed what he needed to do. Without a second thought, he pushed and snapped his CMC joint down until he heard the snap and a jolt of pain seized his whole hand.

Peter wanted to scream from the pain, but he had no time. Already, the bracelet documented the spike of his nerves and was going to dose him. He shimmied the bracelet down and watched it slip off his wrist and to the grass.

Free at last! The pain subdue over the relief of his chain broken.

The jubilation sparked him into a run. A full-out sprint really as he barreled toward the fence line. As everything blurred passed him, he heard the breakage of voices calling to him. Some of Mr. Reynolds. Some of Luke Cage and Jack. Other voices mingled in there too, but Peter didn’t stop to pay attention.

He neared the fence, coming right up to it. The closest he’s ever been to it. Now or never.

Peter flung himself up in the air. He skyrocketed up to the sky, his feet flying further away from the grass and up to the fence. Please don’t hit it, Peter prayed. If he didn’t make the leap, it wouldn’t be good. Not at all.

He kept ascending to the point he was up in the treetops’ views, seeing lands far away from him. Lands that were open to him. He looked down. The fence was below him, underneath his feet.

Peter wanted to weep. He did it! He jumped the fence.

He readied himself for the landing, knowing it was going to more like a crash. He descended down once he cleared the fence. It was a rushing plummet, and Peter tried to steady himself. His feet hit the ground, hard and forced him to roll.

The foliage and dirt scraped his face and hands, but eventually he stopped his tumbling upon hitting a tree trunk. Groaning, he pushed himself off the ground on the opposite side of the fence.

He did it. He escaped!

“PETER!”

Peter saw Mr. Reynolds rushing over to him on the other side, while his teammates stared, dumbfounded.

No time to admire his accomplishment. Time to sprint into the oblivion black forest.

He turned away from the fence, the compound and his team and tore into the dark forest as fast as he could go.


	7. Into the Woods

Jump. Duck. Swing over shrubs. Stop tripping over roots.

Run. Keep running. Don’t stop. Go. Faster.

Peter blew through the forest. He never gave himself a moment to pause or a chance to take a breath. His feet moved as fast as his heart pumped. Every now and then his foot stumbled or got caught on a root, but he persisted onward.

There was no need to check over his shoulder. He knew an army chased him, determined to recapture him. Peter wasn’t going to let them get the chance. All he had to do was keep moving. Keep running.

Duck. Tumble. Leap. Run faster.

His cheeks burned, his lungs expanding to the maximum. Breaths came out in small spurts, hot and edgy. Hands curled into sweaty fists as he pushed onward, throwing himself full throttle into the wood and foliage. Dirt scuffed the bottoms of his shoes and his hands were dirtied and bloody from the scrapes of thorns, twigs and pebbled rocks from when he fell.

Sweat dribbled down to his eyes. He wiped it away and looked around him, trying to find anything to pinpoint his location or where to go. He only found woodlands that went deeper and deeper into the unknown.

He wished he stole a map or a GPS. It would make his life a bit easier at the moment.

He ran nonstop until the land went dark and the moon was high above him, permitting limited light to guide his path.

All the running and the fried nerves exhausted him. He’s never been this tired for a long time. He didn’t want to stop, but his body was going to collapse any moment. Worse, his dislocated thumb thrived in his exhaustion. Pain pulsed through to his very guts. It was deep and warm, and not in the nice way. Every movement or breath, the pain returned and no matter how slow or how deep he breathed, it would not subside.

He needed to take a break. Find a place to hide while he rest and tried to fix his dislocated thumb. Using his good hand, he felt around the forest as he hunted for a hideaway. The bark’s ridges guided him through the tangled woods, the moon’s light scattering into piece on the ground floor by the tree tops above him.

It was going to be a long night.

The night air chilled and Peter was thankful to war his thicker sweater. He stumbled his way through, looking for a possible trench or a good tree with plenty of branches to use as a hideaway when he spotted a yellow light amongst the white.

Peter dropped low. He crawled on his belly, coming up to the bush, squeezing his thin body through to peer out through the thicket.

His eyes widened. There was a cabin! In the middle of this hellish forest, there was a cabin!

Peter’s heart elevated in excitement. A cabin! Another person!

Then elevated hope came crashing back down into his gut. A cabin in the middle of the woods, not far from the Compound. Another person. A possible agent luring Peter into thinking he was safe.

Peter shrunk back into the bush, contemplating what he should do. Someone was home. The warm glow of a light emitted from the windows, signaling life inside. Enemy or ally, he wasn’t sure. Peter drilled his good hand against his knee. He could go on, forget the cabin and its owner. Or, he could sneak inside, find a phone and call the police.

No! He couldn’t trust the police wouldn’t help him. After all, Stark had the government’s blessing to capture people and imprison them for life. It wouldn’t be far-fetched for the police to be working with him.

The only person he could trust was his aunt. She was the only person who mattered. Peter sucked in a chilly breath, letting it ice his lungs. He made his decision. To get back to Aunt May, Peter would stay brave and do what was needed. Even if his whole body screamed in fear and agony.

He hobbled to the edge of the property. There wasn’t much to notice. It was a simple cabin. Square and plain, with a black Jeep parked in front. There were no flowers and very little landscaping done around the cabin. Almost like the house wasn’t even a home.

Peter snuck across the lawn, sliding his back up against the cabin. He moved right underneath a window, tuning in to hear what was happening inside the cabin. No voices were heard, but the scuffling of shoes across the floor and the clanks of glass on a table was loud and clear. Someone was moving, shuffling things.

Slowly, Peter inched up to get a peek. His eyes drew along the windowsill and Peter saw someone. Just one person. Their back was to him, not at all noticing they were being spied upon. Peter ducked, sucking in a sharp breath.

Distraction time.

Peter lowered himself from the window, close to the ground that his hand was around a random object. A rock. Simple, but effective. Once thrown, making the curious noise that always drew people’s attention, Peter would make a mad dash inside to find a phone. Or keys. He could use the Jeep to high-tail it back to New York.

Rock pressed against his palm, Peter raised his arm to chuck it when the front door smacked open. Peter got startled, letting out a yelp and dropping the rock in progress.

“Whoa!” cried the owner, startled too as he shuffled too fast backwards and rammed into the threshold. “What the—where did you come from?”

Peter’s mind raced with several lies. “Um… I-I came from… I mean,” he rambled, but as time slipped past, the stranger’s face became clearer and resembled to someone he knew.

It took Peter almost a second later to recognize the face. His mouth dropped wide open.

“… Dr. Banner!”

Pushed against the threshold in shock was indeed Dr. Bruce Banner. AKA the Incredible Hulk.

Peter couldn’t believe it. One of the greatest scientist ever alive was standing a few feet away from him, baffled by the arrival of a complete stranger. Peter goggled at the man, amazed at the random encounter of an Avenger in the middle of nowhere. This was the most amazing thing to happen in his life!

Dr. Banner looked the opposite of Peter. He was petrified at the sight of Peter crouched right underneath his window. His hair aged with more silver streaks than black. His skin ragged from blistering elements and his glasses hung right to the tip of his nose. Dr. Banner looked nothing like he did in the photographs. The man had seen things. Done things.

“Who are you?” Dr. Banner asked, confused. “H-How did you get here?”

Peter scrambled to get up, but in his excitement at seeing one of his idols, he forgot about his injured hand. He pressed his hand down on the ground to push up and a ripping spike of pain brought him to kneel. He cried out, curling over his hand as he tried to numb the pain away.

“Hey! Hey!” came Dr. Banner’s voice. “Are you okay?”

Peter craned his neck up. Dr. Banner had squatted down to be leveled with Peter. He peeked underneath Peter’s sheltered and spotted the injury right away.

“Ouch,” he winced sympathetically. “That doesn’t look good.” He glanced over to the tree line and then back to his cabin. “Here—let’s get you inside. I’ll take a look at it.”

Peter almost told him it wasn’t necessary, but when the Hulk lifted him up, Peter complied with the good doctor’s orders. Dr. Banner ushered him through the door. Once inside, Dr. Banner closed the door and locked it.

Too late to do anything now. Peter was trapped in a one room cabin. With the Hulk.

His night kept getting better and better.

* * *

From experience, Natasha Romanoff knew things don’t always go accordingly to plan. The results were the same and expected, but not the path to it. She—like all her fellow former Avengers and SHIELD agents—learned to adapt and be flexible. Stick with the main objective and be ready for anything.

Her successful missions had her climb the ranks fast to the point she joined Clint Barton as Director Fury’s ace-in-the-hole team. He trusted her to get the job done and she always got the job done.

Which was why Stark trusted her to lead the investigation into Peter Parker’s escape.

The chaos grew in the command center. Everyone darted to and from, typing rapidly on the computers as reports filtered through the system. Random agents brought her reports on the situation. She quickly reviewed them. Each medical record and power analysis concluded that it was impossible for Parker to make the jump.

The doors to the control-center opened. Reynolds entered. He was red and flustered. Almost like someone bewildered him out of his money.

Nat smirked at the man. “And how’s your afternoon going?” she said. “Straight to hell?”

Reynolds burned at the insult. “It’s all being handled,” he snipped. “We sent men to retrieve him.”

She was quite aware. “Units?”

“Two with twenty,” Maria Hill answered from her right. Agent Hill, Director Fury’s former right-hand agent sat at central computer, using her full access to keep her updated on the entire situation. “They got their orders to bring the kid in at all cost.”

“Stark doesn’t want the kid dead, Maria,” Nat reminded her. Sometimes, it felt like Nat was the only one who cared about the people’s well-being. “Change the orders to bring the kid in  _alive and unharmed_.”

“Will do,” Agent Hill said, pressing something against her ear and speaking, “ALPHA? This is Watchtower. Change protocol to submissive. We do not want the asset damaged.”

Nat restrained herself, letting only a mild breath of heated irritation to slip out. When did a kid become an asset?

She walked closer to the main hub, screens covered with every tidbit of information on Peter Parker. She stared at the image of the boy. In the quiet moments, an old, familiar ache filtered through her chest. She studied the boy’s face, thinking about other children she used to know and loved with all her heart. She wondered if they would remember her fondly. Or if they will remember her as the famous Black Widow who betrayed their father.  

Her mouth parted slightly in dismay as her feelings became more conflicted the longer her gaze remained on the boy’s image.

“Let’s send in the enforcers.”

Nat whipped her head from the screens. “What?”

“The enforcers,” Reynolds repeated. “They caught him last time. They can do it again.”

Nat shook her head. “Unavailable and not necessary,” she maintained, severely. “The units will find him.”

She detested that unit. Not exactly a trusted group of individuals. They tended to  _bend_  the rules, but they got results. Results that may be more detrimental than good.

“We need all hands on deck for this,” Reynolds barked and he proceeded to snap at Agent Hill. “Send them in.”

“Don’t, Maria,” countered Nat as she confronted Reynolds. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest and she moved her body to favor her left side. “Why don’t we wait a moment before we send in the crazies? Or better yet, why don’t we wait for Stark?”

Reynolds didn’t bat an eyelash, but Nat observed the flash of shock on his face. “Stark is coming here?” he asked.

Before Nat could answer him, the elevator door pinged.

Every head in the command center craned back to look. All the words and voices hushed into fading whispers.

The elevator doors parted.

Silence.

Tony Stark arrived.

Dressed to impress with his signature glasses, he sauntered out of the elevator. He kept a patient expression, walking further into the arena as he merely glanced at the screens he passed. Each agent and technician in the entire room were overwrought, some taking different actions upon the boss’s arrival. Some began worked furiously, rummaging around their desk to appear busy. Others froze, eyes wide at the man’s arrival and unable to do anything, including blinking and breathing.

Stark ignored everyone around him and stopped beside Nat, his casual swagger still intact despite the catastrophe at hand. She knew Stark was pissed off. The quieter he was, the angrier he was.

“So—” Stark began as he sniffed. “Tell me what went wrong.”

Reynolds was quick to reply. “It appears the subject’s bracelet failed to—”

“Nah-ah,” Stark interrupted, shaking his head. “Try again.”

Reynolds looked confused, but he tried again. “Um… the subject was outside when his—”

“Jesus-fucking-Christ,” Stark muttered, whipping his glasses right off his face. “Okay—you—shut up.” He turned away from Reynolds, looking to Nat and Agent Maria Hill. “All right… spill. Tell me what’s happening.”

“Peter escaped,” Nat answered to cool off Stark’s head. “Based off the last record from the device, Peter was in distress.”

She dug into her pocket and passed the bracelet to Stark. “Found it on the grass,” she said. “My best bet is he broke his thumb, slid the gadget off and made the jump.”

Stark fiddled with the unbroken bracelet, probably coming to the same conclusion. “How the hell did he get over the fence?” he grilled. “I was told no one could get over it.”

Only because those capable were never given permission to ever get that close, Nat thought. Anyone who had the ability to hop over the fence were never granted permission to even be outside.

“Well, he proved you wrong,” she said, nonchalantly. “He jumped it. It took a running start, but he did it.”

Stark agitatedly rubbed a hand over his face. “Why was he even close to the fence at all? What the hell was he doing?”

“The course loop, sir,” Reynolds popped himself back into the conversation. “I had my team do a few laps of the course for endurance training.”

Stark’s brown eyes irksomely squinted at him. “Endurance training, eh?” he murmured as he pivoted to confront Reynolds. “Is that code for letting your team go wild?”

“He wasn’t a major threat. He’s only a level six,” Reynolds tried to reason. “He never displayed that capability to jump that high! Even when we were doing the laps, he fell behind as he grew tired. He…”

Reynolds stopped talking upon the look on Stark’s infuriating face.

“You only had one fucking job to do, Reynolds!” Stark’s voice swelled with indignation, and everyone around them tensed in anticipation of an explosion. “One! Look after the kid. Not that hard to do! Grandmothers do it all the time!”

Reynolds kept quiet, but Stark ranted on.

“I entrusted you with the kid,” Stark continued, seething. “Out of everyone here, I trusted you to be the one person to keep the kid in line. I thought you could handle him! I was wrong and now, I have to deal with this.”

Reynolds scowled at the criticism. “I did everything—”

Stark put up a finger, effectively cutting him off. “Not interested,” he dismissed the man. “Can’t be entertained with your excuses when there’s a kid in danger.”

Stark turned his back to Reynolds, officially ignoring him. He walked up to the big screen, his gaze hard on Peter’s profile. Nat heard the man hum, a sign his mind was whirling a thousand thoughts. Stark rubbed a hand along his jaw before he turned to face Nat.

“Give it to me straight,” he demanded. “What’s our chances?”

Nat sucked in a deep breath. Their chances were high in recapturing the kid. Something she wasn’t too pleased about as she secretly rooted for the kid. “High.”

“Good… good,” he muttered, but he was holding something back. “Good. What about the roads? Nearby towns?”

“Sir?” Agent Hill spoke up. “We have our people in place and set up road-checks. If the asset takes the road, we will find him. We also have two units in the outlaying forest following his trail.”

“Great! Keep me posted,” Stark responded, but again, he didn’t act that invested in the information. “Um… Romanoff?”

Nat picked her head up, seeing that Stark wanted a more… private conversation with her. Away from all the prying eyes of everyone in the room. From what Nat analyzed of Stark when she pretended to be his secretary, he had trust issues that only deepened since the whole Captain America debacle.

Stark picked his people carefully. And as of now, he trusted her and her judgment.

They walked together in silence, out of the commander center and into another private room. It was a random office, unoccupied by anyone except them. Stark strode across toward the window, arms folded as he looked out over the grounds of the compound, toward the vast forest ahead.

She heard him let out a deep sigh. “This has gotten out of hand,” he grumbled. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“What did you expect?” Nat challenged. “You really think the kid was going to go along with your plan?”

“I thought I made it clear to him from the beginning,” Stark returned with a bite in his tone. “Get some training in and grow into his powers. Become  _someone_.” He turned away from the window, all agitated. “What kind of kid runs away from a 100 acre playground for super-heroes? I mean… there’s even a lap pool and a cinema that is stocked with all kinds of candy and he just takes off? Into the woods with nothing?

“He’s either brave or a complete idiot,” Stark finished in a mutter.

“Or desperate,” Nat countered. “He’s a kid. Who’s all alone and misses his family. He worries for his aunt.”

Stark huffed. “Her? She’s fine.”

“Is she?”

Stark shrugged, indifferently. He didn’t care about the family. All that mattered to Stark was Peter Parker.

“I want him back here. Now!” Stark declared. “I don’t care what we have to do, but he better be back here where he belongs. Got it? I want him back here  _tonight_!”

Nat arched her brows at the defining statement. Since Peter’s arrival at the Compound, Nat trailed him. Without garnering Reynolds’ notice, she scrutinized everything that happened and watched the poor boy be mistreated. Nat saw the fear in the boy whenever he joined up with them. The nervous and the constant second-guessing because of the “pranks” pulled on him or the blatant disregard of him because of his age. Reynolds tried to shelter Peter from the abuse, constantly punishing Powers, but he never gave Peter the assurance of his safety.

Peter Parker doesn’t belong here. He belonged with his family—his aunt.

Stark drummed his fingers against his arm. “Have you contacted him?”

She pinched her lips in perplexity. “Who?”

“Your boyfriend.”

Nat’s heart plunged straight to her feet, burrowing her feet right into the floor. She kept her face neutral despite the sudden pang of heartache. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah—sorry—forgot,” Stark apologized, but Nat didn’t truly believe he’d forgotten. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Can we trust him?”

Nat thought it over. She knew Bruce would do the right thing. The honorable man would never do anything wrong. It was why she loved him. “We can trust him,” she said. “He’ll do the right thing.”

Stark nodded, but crinkled up his mouth in doubt. “I hope he does too.”

Quietness fell between them, both lost in their own thoughts and pain to consider the other one. Nat noticed Stark looked older than she last remembered. A man with a scarred soul, slowly rotting from inside out.

The great Iron Man shook his head distractedly. “God… I need a drink,” he muttered, eyes bouncing about the room in a panicky search. “Like now.”

* * *

Dr. Banner pulled a chair around to Peter. “Have a seat,” he said, tapping on the seat, “and let me take a look at your thumb.”

Peter slowly lowered himself on the chair, his nerves shaking his arms. The air got thicker, making it difficult Peter to breathe as he watched Dr. Banner shuffle through his cabinets.

Maybe now was his chance. If he could reach the door, he could dart away from the man. He couldn’t trust Dr. Banner to not be working for Stark. After all, he’s an Avenger and old buddy of Stark’s. He lived in the woods, not too far from the Compound. He was probably the last line of defense. The one card Stark held on in case all other security measures failed.

All Dr. Banner needed was to receive the call and take Peter down in his Hulk form.

Oh god! Peter was going to get smashed by the Hulk.

“Ah-hah!”

Peter jumped in his seat as Dr. Banner cried in victory. The man reached into the cupboard and pulled out a wad of what appeared to be athletic tape. He threw it into a container he dragged along the counter surface and then turned back around to join Peter.

He hauled another chair over, setting it close to Peter. “Okay,” he said, setting aside his container of medical supplies. “Let me have a look.”

Peter was hesitant to show him, but Dr. Banner took his hand anyway. The scientist studied it, twisting his wrist to get a better angle of the thumb. Peter sat rigid. He barely even took a breath as the Hulk medically examined him.

Dr. Banner hummed in thought. “Definitely dislocated,” he confirmed. “Broken? I’ll need to see an X-ray.” He rotated Peter’s wrist again, gently and with great care. “May I?”

Peter wasn’t going to say no to a man that could instantly turn in a raging, green giant. Dr. Banner to his lack of response as an acceptance. He slipped his fingers over the dislocation, fingers caressing the area to gauge the injury.

“Got lost in the woods?” Dr. Banner questioned, maybe to make small talk. “Did you come from the campgrounds?”

“Yes,” Peter lied, eagerly accepting the façade of a lost boy. “Um… yeah. Feel down a ravine and, um, yeah. Kind of got lost.”

Dr. Banner nodded along to his story, almost like he wasn’t listening at all to Peter’s lie. He was too drawn into Peter’s injury to pay attention to the story Peter concocted.

He watched the scientist frown in puzzlement. “That’s odd,” Dr. Banner muttered. “It’s like… your thumb is healing in this position, which is impossible. I mean… how long have you been in the woods? It shouldn’t heal like this or that quick—”

Dr. Banner stopped. His fingers uncurled away from Peter’s thumb. Slowly, his eyes raised up over his glasses and peered right into Peter’s face with a dawning realization.

“You’re not lost,” Dr. Banner determined, taking in Peter’s full appearance. “You’re from the Compound.”

Alarms rang loud in his head. Panic seized him and he jerked into action.

He kicked Dr. Banner’s chair away from him. It caught Dr. Banner by surprise and he fell right off his chair. Peter wasted no time jumping up, looking for the exit. He rushed to the closet window to him, yanking it up to climb out.

Except, it didn’t open. It was locked tight. Peter forfeit opening the window and punched the glass to break it. Yet, it didn’t break.

This was not good.

Peter abandoned the window entirely, looking for another way out. The only option he had was the front door, which was blocked by Dr. Banner who was recovering from falling off his chair.

Dr. Banner snatched his glasses from the floor where it slipped off his face as he straightened his back. He put them back on, eyelashes fluttering behind the glass. It took him a split second to adjust before he found Peter.

Peter backed away. “I’m not going back!” he warned Dr. Banner. “Okay? I’m not—I… I’ll fight you! I will!” Peter glanced around him for any weapon, snatching up the closet object to him—a ruler. He held it up like a sword. “See? I mean it! I’ll fight you!”

Dr. Banner groaned a bit as he adjusted his glasses again. “Huh? W-What are you talking about?”

Peter tightened his grip on the ruler. “You work for Mr. Stark don’t you?” he accused. “You’re like his… big, bad wolf! Hiding in the woods and lying in wait. Well—you messed with the wrong kid! Okay? I’m not afraid of you!”

Dr. Banner’s eyes fluttered quizzically, eyebrows high up his forehead in bafflement by everything that occurred. “I think I hit my head too hard because I have no idea what you just said,” he confessed. “Did you even speak English?”

Peter slid his feet back to the window and took a glimpse out. He looked to the boundaries, half-expecting to see armed men approaching. Nothing so far.

He looked back to Dr. Banner. “How far away are they? How many are coming?”

“I honestly don’t—”

Peter raised the ruler up toward Dr. Banner. “Don’t lie to me!” he shouted, his shaky voice betraying his confidence. “You contacted Mr. Stark and told him I’m here. You’re working for him!”

The befuddlement on Dr. Banner’s face lightened. He let out a small gasp of understanding while wiping a hand along the side of his face and down his jaw. “Okay… I think I know what’s going on.”

Peter shook his head. “Don’t try to trick me! I’m not dumb,” he shouted. “I’m not afraid to fight you!”

Dr. Banner smirked. “Yes, you are.”

“No—”

“Kid? I turn into a green, raging monster,” Dr. Banner interrupted him, pointedly. “I know what fear looks like in others. And you are full of it right now.”

Peter gulped. The scientist was inquisitive and correct. Peter was afraid, but he refused to lower his ruler.

Dr. Banner paced a little and heaved a sigh. He took off his glasses and fiddled them in his hands. “Let’s calm down a bit,” he suggested, which Peter found it ironic considering Dr. Banner had anger issues. “You want to put the ruler down? Take a seat?”

Peter shook his head.

“Kid—I’m not going to hurt you.”

Peter stood his ground. He kept the ruler high and ready.

Dr. Banner shrugged in surrender. “All right… well, let me set the record straight,” he said and he gestured his hands to himself. “First, let me just say this—I do not work for Tony.”

“Liar!”

“Really, I don’t,” Dr. Banner insisted. “Look around you. I don’t even own a phone! That right there should tell you I don’t work for the man.”

Peter checked the cabin. After a quick search, he realized Dr. Banner was right. There was no phone or TV. All that was available was a laptop, scientific equipment, empty, microwaved meals and minimum furnishings. Nothing screamed of Stark’s elaborate style.

Maybe the good doctor was telling the truth.

He lowered the ruler. Only a little though. “So—you don’t work for Mr. Stark?”

Dr. Banner shook his head. “No.”

“Then… do you work for Captain America?” Peter asked, hopeful.

His hope deflated when Dr. Banner shook his head again. “No… I-I don’t work for either of them,” he confessed. “In fact, I haven’t spoken to Steve in years. Not since the Sokovia.”

That was disappointing. “Then what are you doing here?”

Dr. Banner grabbed his chair and fixed it to its standing position. His gazed downward and away from Peter. “It’s complicated, but after the whole fiasco in Sokovia, I realized it would be better if I just stayed away. I was collateral damage to the group. I was more destructive than helpful, and it would just be best for everyone if I left.

“So I did,” he continued, fingers pinching the edges of his sleeves. “I went into seclusion. Wanted no more part in that world and they respected my decision. Not happily for some of them, but… they understood. I kept to myself. Rented this cabin and I worked on my projects. I was… at peace.

“Didn’t hear from my teammates at all until about a year ago when Tony knocked on my door,” Dr. Banner revealed, confliction in the man’s eyes. “Claimed he needed my help. Said that Steve went off the wagon or some kind of metaphor nonsense. Went onto say that if Steve continued down his path, it would be the end of the Avengers.”

Peter remembered the news outlets talking about Captain America going rogue. “He’s talking about the Sokovia Accords.”

Dr. Banner nodded. “Yeah, but, as I said before, I wanted to no part in it. I was taking no sides. I was neutral,” he continued the tale. “I’m Switzerland and told Tony he would have to figure something without me.”

“What did he say?” Peter asked, curious as to how Mr. Stark took the rejection.

“He said he got it. Understood and wouldn’t pressure me into anything,” Dr. Banner answered. “But… he did want me to make a promise. About staying neutral and to not get in the way of what happens between him and Steve. I told him that they should try talking it out. That whatever happened could be mended, but Tony said they were far past it. Said that if I didn’t want to get involved, then I had to stay out of it. So—I did.

“In return, Tony sometimes sends me a monthly allowance,” He went on, rubbing his finger across his nose. “Seems more like a bribe, but he insisted it was more to make sure I didn’t die of starvation out here. Thought it was wild that I lived alone in the woods.

“Since then, no one had really reached out to me. Don’t know what happening much in the real world,” Dr. Banner came to a dwindling conclusion. “Just… stayed here in my cabin. Working on my project.”

Peter flickered a glance to the work on the table. He read the notes and equations scrawled on loose sheets of paper and recognized some of the chemical bottles residing next to the beakers and vials.

“W-What are you doing here?” Peter muttered as he drew closer to the table. He plucked up one of the vials to examine it.

“Careful!” Dr. Banner shouted, coming up to the table in two strides and snatching the vial out of Peter’s hands. “You don’t want to mess with this stuff. It’s dangerous.”

Peter studied the table. “This… is this some kind of medicine?”

“Hopefully,” Dr. Banner said as he carefully rested the vial back down. “One day.”

Peter’s brain clicked in recognition. “You’re trying to find a way to cure yourself from the Hulk, aren’t you?”

Dr. Banner rolled in his lips as he glanced away. “It’s a working progress, but that is what I am aiming for,” he said. “Find a cure to end the curse.”

“But… what about the Hulk?”

Dr. Banner reeled in surprise. “What do you mean?” he said. “He’ll be gone. The monster will no longer exist.”

The Hulk gone? Forever? “But… but… you can’t do that!” he argued. “The Hulk is a hero! You can’t get rid of him!”

Dr. Banner’s mouth dropped, incredulous over Peter’s statement. “W-What?”

Suddenly, Peter felt childish and foolish. “I didn’t mean he saved a lot of people,” he said. “People see him as a hero.”

“The majority do not,” Dr. Banner countered. “I’ve killed people. Destroyed towns and homes. Most do not see the Hulk as a hero. He’s a monster and all people fear monsters.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Dr. Banner snorted. “Really? Weren’t you just pointing a ruler at me not long ago?”

“Well, I was afraid of the Hulk if he sided with Mr. Stark,” Peter sheepishly replied. “Now that I know you don’t work for him, I’m not afraid of you.”

Dr. Banner shook his head in amusement. “Still afraid, kid. You’re brave, but still scared,” he said. “I see you try to glimpse a green hue on my skin every now and then.”

Peter ashamedly dropped his gaze. That was true. He had checked for green hue. “I’m sorry.”

The man waved his apology off. “Don’t worry about it. I’m used to it,” he assured Peter, not offended at all. “Anyway, that’s why I’m working out here. To find a way to cure myself and go back to living a normal life.”

Peter didn’t try to talk him out of it again. He backed away from the workstation and moved around Dr. Banner. But, the doctor put up his hand to stop him.

“So, now that we had this talk and understanding,” he said to Peter. “Can you let me fix your thumb?”

Peter forgotten about his dislocated thumb and the second Dr. Banner mentioned it, a shot of agony pulsed from his hand up through his arm. He nodded his consent and they retook their seats again.

Dr. Banner studied it one more time. “Looks like I will have to break it in order to reset it,” he said, flipping his eyes up to Peter. “Is that okay?”

Peter shrugged. “You’re the doctor.”

The former Avenger got his medical supplies ready at hand and then repositioned Peter’s hand for accuracy. “Okay before I start,” he said to Peter. “How’s your pain tolerance? I know you can heal quickly, but does that affect how you feel pain?”

“Err… my tolerance is normal, I guess,” answered Peter.

“Okay, then, I guess I should warn you,” Dr. Banner quipped as he took Peter’s thumb in his hands, “this will hurt.”

The scientist didn’t even do a count down. He snapped the thumb and Peter screamed to the top of his lungs. Tears sprung to his eyes, but before he could retaliate, Dr. Banner moved Peter’s thumb again and he heard a click.

“There we go,” Dr. Banner announced. “Sorry—I figured I would do it quick. You okay?”

Peter automatically nodded, although he knew Dr. Banner could see his tears. “Y-yeah.”

The doctor patted his shoulder. “The pain will lessen,” he said. “Here, let’s put on this splint to keep it from healing incorrectly again.”

Dr. Banner attached a splint to Peter’s thumb and then wrapped it with athletic tape. “Now, don’t add any pressure to it,” he advised. “And ice it, okay? Here—let me get you a frozen bag of vegetables.”

Dr. Banner went to his freezer and dug around while Peter examined his wrapped hand. The man returned with frozen corn and pressed it against Peter’s thumb. “Hold it right there and keep it elevated for at least ten minutes,” he prescribed. “Okay… you got it?”

Peter nodded as he held the bag of corn against his thumb. “Thank you,” he said. “And, um, I’m sorry that I kicked you out of your chair and threatened you with a ruler.”

Dr. Banner laughed a smile. “It’s nothing. You were scared,” he said. “Although, I was a bit worried when you pointed the ruler at me.”

A joke. The Incredible Hulk was making a joke. “I can look intimidating.”

“Of course,” Dr. Banner said as he dabbed a tissue with rubbing alcohol. “Here, let me clean up some of these cuts on your face.”

Peter let the man dab at his wounds. The sting of the alcohol made him cringe, but he endured the pain.

As he finished up cleaning Peter’s cuts and face of dirt, he started to pack up his medical supplies. “Okay— now that I told you everything about me. What about you?” Dr. Banner questioned. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

He was right. Peter hadn’t introduced himself. “Peter. Peter Parker,” he said and stretched his hand out to the doctor. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Dr. Banner stared at the proffered hand for a second before he shook it. “Nice to meet you, Peter Parker,” he said. “So, you obviously have healing powers. What else do you have? Or is that it?”

“Oh, um, no. There’s more,” Peter said as he adjusted his chair. “I can do other things too. I can pretty much stick to any surface, and I have superhuman strength, speed, durability, and agility.”

Dr. Banner nodded along with the list of powers. “Wow—that’s… quite a collection,” he said. “How did you get it? Were you born this way or—”

“Spider bite,” Peter answered. “Got bitten by a radioactive spider.”

Dr. Banner winced. “Ouch. That had to hurt.”

“For a day or two, but then it stopped hurting and I got all these powers.”

“Must be kind of scary having all those powers,” Dr. Banner remarked. “What did you do with them? Don’t tell me you tried to rob a bank or something.”

“What? No! I would never—” Peter shook his head. “No, I used them for good things. Like, stopping bike thieves or car thieves. Helping kittens out of trees. Those type of things. Helped the little people out.”

Dr. Banner looked impressed. “Wow!” he said again. “Wouldn’t expect that to be the first thing a person would do with such powers. Not unless you were Cap, but he’s a bit of a righteous person to begin with.”

“Well, when you have powers like I have and you don’t do anything, and then people get hurt because you didn’t do anything, that’s on you,” Peter said. “I have to help people. It’s… someone has to, I guess. Help the little people, who think they don’t matter, but do matter.”

Peter sighed, fixing the frozen corn into an easier grip. “Anyway, yeah,” he muttered. “That’s what I did before all this happened.”

Dr. Banner didn’t say anything for a long moment. He stared at him, astounded or confounded, Peter didn’t know. There was shock in his face, etched from his chin to the deep trenches in his forehead.

“Who did you say you were?” Dr. Banner asked.

“Peter.”

“And how old are you?”

“Err… fifteen.”

Dr. Banner’s eyes bulged. “Fifteen?” he exclaimed. “You’re an actual child! W-What… I can’t… How did you get involved with Tony?”

Peter scowled at the name. “I didn’t. He kidnapped me.”

“What?” Dr. Banner shot up in his seat, looking as if someone smacked him hard in the face.

Peter nodded. “I don’t remember too much about it,” he admitted. “All I remember was that I was in Queens and then next, I woke up in some strange, small room.”

“Queens, New York?”

Peter nodded again, although he didn’t see what was so important about that tidbit. “That’s where I live with my aunt,” he said. “And, Mr. Stark took me from her and kept me locked in the Compound with all these other super-powered people. Forced me to train and denied me any and all of my rights because of the stupid Accords—”

“Wait! Stop!” Dr. Banner cut him off, waving his hand frantically at Peter. He took a few breaths, fingers wrangled in his hair in distress. “You’re saying that Tony kidnapped you from your home and held you against your will at the Compound?”

“Yes! I had this bracelet on me to keep me in line. Any time I did something they didn’t like, I got drugged,” Peter lifted his injured hand to Dr. Banner. “That’s why my thumb was dislocated. I did it myself to get the bracelet off to jump the wall.”

“The wall?” Dr. Banner arched his brows high once more. “The thirty-five feet wall surrounding the perimeter? You jumped that?”

“I had a running start.”

Dr. Banner swore and buried his face in his hands. Peter heard the man grumble behind his calloused hands. Peter captured only few inaudible words, but based on the man’s tone, it didn’t sound pleasant.

“Oh, Tony… Tony…” Dr. Banner muttered as he dropped his hands from his face. “Damn it, Tony.”

He got up from his seat, needing to exercise off his frustration. “He’s gone off the deep end,” he said. “I thought—I thought he got over it after Ultron, but…”

“What are you talking about?” Peter asked. “What’s Ultron?”

Dr. Banner stopped his pacing. “You said you were from Queens?”

Peter nodded.

“Then you remember the Battle of New York?”

Peter nodded again. He remembered all the aliens coming from the sky to terrorize New York. It was the moment the world was smaller and the universe was bigger. The TV constantly replayed Tony Stark’s valiant, near-sacrifice to save New York.

“After Tony went through that hole, he saw something. Something that terrified him to pieces,” Dr. Banner explained. “He wouldn’t talk about it. Didn’t say what he saw. Kept it all bottled up. He wouldn’t stop trying to find ways to create the ultimate ‘defender’. He kept building Iron Mans left and right to the point it drove Pepper almost away. Then, he created Ultron, well, I had help in that as well, but—it didn’t work.

“But, I thought he gave up on it after Ultron’s failure,” Dr. Banner groaned. “I didn’t think— I didn’t think he would ever go this far!”

“What’s he planning?” Peter asked, rising up from his seat too. Dr. Banner’s words scared him that he needed to know. “Did he tell you anything?”

Dr. Banner shook his head. “I told you! I haven’t spoken to Tony in ages,” he said. “I don’t know what he’s planning, but I’m guessing his fear of  _losing_  is playing into it.”

“Losing what?”

Dr. Banner didn’t answer him. Something distracted because he suddenly got edgy, checking the doors and windows. “You need to go.”

Everything screeched to halt. “What?”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t stay here much longer,” Dr. Banner said, painfully and apprehensively. “If Tony finds you here… I’m sorry! Really, but you have to go.”

Peter gaped at the sudden turnaround. He let the frozen corn slip off his hand and fall to the floor. “But—I need your help!” he said. “If they take me back, I’ll never see my aunt again! They’ll put me in the hole! Or whatever that is!”

“Peter, I’m sorry,” Dr. Banner apologized, pained to even say it. “I-I can’t help you. If Tony found out—”

He got it. It hurt him and made him a bit angry, but he understood it. If Mr. Stark learned of Dr. Banner interfering willingly by helping him, then Dr. Banner would be locked away in the Compound too. And, although Peter wanted his help and protection, he didn’t want to do that to Dr. Banner. Not after he fixed his thumb.

Dr. Banner saw the disheartened expression. “I wish I could help you more,” he said. “I do.”

“I know.” He did, but it didn’t make him feel any better. “I should go as you said. Wasted too much time here anyway.”

“Wait a minute!” Dr. Banner went to his pantry and came back with a box of granola bars. “Here. You look hungry and as your doctor, you should eat more.”

Peter took the box. “Thanks,” he said. “Good luck with finding a cure and all. And thanks for fixing my dislocation.”

“I wish I could do more. Really—”

“It’s okay,” Peter interrupted. “Really. I get it. I’ll be on my way. Thanks for everything!”

Peter stepped aside Dr. Banner and headed to the front door. There was nothing else Dr. Banner could do without drawing him down with him. Peter wasn’t going to force the good doctor into a dangerous situation. Peter got out of the Compound on his own. He can get out of the woods and back to his aunt on his own too.

“Hey, um, Pete?”

Peter stopped.

“Before you leave,” Dr. Banner said, moving around his workstation. “Do you see that bowl near the door?”

Peter saw the small bowl by the front door. “Yeah?”

“It’s great. It holds a lot of things,” Dr. Banner mentioned. “It’s where I put my Jeep keys, money and all sort of things.”

Peter stared at the scientist like he went a bit crazy for talking about a cheap, plastic bowl. “Um… okay.”

Dr. Banner continued fiddling with his equipment. “Sometimes, when I want to get away, I take my Jeep and head north on the gravel road until I hit the asphalt,” he continued on. “Then I drive east and keep going until I hit civilization. But, if I need a break to fill up or fuel up, there’s a decent station off the side of the road where no one ever bothers me.”

Peter scrutinized the scientist, wondering if he got a loose screw and finally went mad! But then his mind caught up with the subtle message.

He slipped a soft, thankful smile to Dr. Banner. “Thank you.”

Dr. Banner raised his eyes up from his work. “For what?” he said. “Just telling you what I do when I want to get away.”

He returned to his work, giving Peter free range to leave. Peter backtracked to the door. He reached his hand into the bowl and snatched the keys and money.


	8. Spideypool

Peter only ever had a few driving lessons with his aunt. Most of them didn't end well. His aunt promised he would get better in time and in practice. 

So, Peter logged in this time as practice. 

The Jeep was less steady than his aunt's Volvo. Any turn Peter made, he thought it would roll and he clung to the steering wheel for safety. Not that it would do any good if it did flip. 

His next concern were woodland creatures. He heard stories of deer jumping right in front of cars and total cars of all shapes and sizes. Peter's eyes kept zigzagging, looking right, left, right, and left, all in anticipation of a deer leaping out of a bush. 

He only relaxed when he hit the asphalt road. Dr. Banner said to head east. Peter made a sharp right turn and he swore, two of the tires were off the ground. He kept his arms straight and steady, but it was futile as the wheels kept sliding around his lane like a drunk driver. Luckily, the road laid empty for him. No other cars were in sight. 

Peter wondered if that was a good or bad thing. He hoped the lack of traffic was due to being far too early in the morning for any sane person to be awake. Realistically, he dreaded the idea it was because Mr. Stark set up roadblocks and patrols out. He’s seen  _The Fugitive_. He knew the basic protocols for escaped convicts.

Ahead, the sun rested resolutely right at the horizon. It made the street as dark as an old-school, black and white image. Only the clock told Peter it was morning. Quarter past four and the adrenaline that kept Peter awake was fading. His eyes drooped a bit, his mind drifting in and out of consciousness. The road blurred a bit and it freaked him out. His fingers curled on the wheel tight to anchor him to reality.

He needed to stop. Rest a bit or at least get some caffeine to reboot him. Dr. Banner mentioned a station on the side of the road. Perhaps it served coffee—in a Big Gulp size. He kept an eye out, searched each side of the road to find any fuel stations.

It was nerve-wracking trying to drive and search for a station. How do people not crash more often? So, he was relieved when a storefront popped up with fuel pumps stationed right outside. In greater relief was that only a single car was parked in front. Probably belonged to the employee working inside the station.

Peter unsteadily pulled into the station, not remembering which side the tank was. He took a guess and parked it. Peter let out a long sigh as he turned the keys and the engine died.

With the cash in his hand, he got out of the Jeep to figure out how to add fuel into the vehicle. The sign was clear: pay first, pump after.

Go figure! Can’t trust people at all these days.

Peter dragged his feet to the doors and entered, praying they had coffee. The fuel station looked exactly like any bodega store in Queens. Only more spacious. It had rows of convenient food and magazines, with a few vehicle merchandise here and there.

His true calling though, made him forget all those things. Straight ahead was a coffee machine. Peter ran to it almost colliding right into it as he scrambled for the biggest cup to fill it with warm, liquid drugs.

Peter turned it on and he watched the coffee pour like a waterfall into his Styrofoam up. Filled, Peter carefully juggled it to the register counter. No one worked at the register. Peter looked around and didn’t see anyone. Where was everybody?

“Um… hello?” he called out, leaning over the counter. “Anyone around?”

No one. Peter checked the room again, but still saw no one. That was strange.

Then, the back door opened and a guy dressed in trucker hat and hoodie, stomped up to the back of the counter. His shaggy, blonde hair was everywhere as he huffed his way to the counter.

“You got money?”

Rude, Peter thought. Then again, Dr. Banner mentioned the pit stop lacked personable skills. Better the guy didn’t take interest in him.

Peter revealed the cash. “Yeah,” he said, putting the cash on the counter. “One large coffee and um… a full tank?” How does one order fuel for a Jeep?

“Yeah… you don’t have enough money for that, kiddo.”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows from the Jeep outside to the wad of cash. “How can you—”

Something sparked in the back of his head. Spidey-sense! It was acting up. Something was happening. Peter whipped his head to the windows, looking at his Jeep. It was parked, remained untouched, unbothered.

What was coming?

Peter turned to ask the attendant to take all of it so he could high-tail it out of there, but all that came was a sharp intake of breath as his heart burst into complete panic.

There was a gun. Pointed at his head. Right between his eyes.

The man behind the gun smiled and purred, “Hey there, sweetums!”

Peter should have taken a closer look at the (fake) attendant. His trucker hat and shaggy hair was all a ruse. Parted through the blonde strings, Peter caught sight of the man’s true face. He’ll have nightmares for days. No—years!

Something terrible happened to him. The man’s face looked like it had been thrown into a fryer and left there for hours. The skin was peeling and melting and boiling all at the same time. It was hideous and the longer Peter gaped the more he wanted to vomit.

The man chuckled before he pulled off the wig, revealing his bald head that also looked fried. What happened to the guy? “Aw… fuck, look at you!” cooed the (fake) attendant. “You looked like you just saw a ghost?  _Boo_!”

Peter flinched and the man laughed.

“Oh—baby boy! Been a long time! Last time I saw you, you were fast asleep,” he said, holding the gun loosely. “You looked so innocent, and all cute and cuddly. Now—Jesus? What? You’ve been crawling about in the woods?”

Peter stared. Who the hell was this guy?

The man stayed silent, almost like he expected Peter to answer him. But, Peter was too afraid to even breathe let alone speak.

“What? You aren’t going to say anything to your cool pal, Deadpool?” the man questioned. “You were quite the chatterbox last time.”

Peter blinked and furrowed his eyebrows in deep confusion. Deadpool what?

His bafflement must have shown on his face because Deadpool acted incredulous over the lack of recognition. “Me—Deadpool. We met in Queens,” he said. “You were all like ‘Who are you?’ and I was like, ‘I’m Deadpool! Your new best friend.’ Ring any bells?”

No. Peter wouldn’t forget a face nor name like that.

Deadpool drooped onto the counter, devastated by the prolonged silence Peter only offered in return. “How could you ever forget a face like this, buddy?” he asked, sniffling. “I thought we were besties! Besties with testes!”

Peter stuttered. “I-I… um…I don’t…”

The man groaned loudly and angry. He grabbed the basket of fruit bars and flung it across the room. It frightened Peter enough to jump and squeeze his eyes shut in anticipation of a coming bullet.

It didn’t come, but Peter’s spidey-sense told him not to throw it off the table.

He cracked his eyes open again. Deadpool kept the gun trained on him as he threw his tantrum. Peter flinched every time the gun jerked in his direction. Was the crazed man planning to kill him or not?

After the man tossed almost everything off the counter and inhaled several deep, meditated breaths, he calmed down to refocus on the whole hold-up. “Argh! Knew I shouldn’t have trusted Stark to keep his word. You give the guy something and he takes it all,” he muttered. “Makes me reconsider this whole relationship we have going on.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter squeaked out, the fire of determination returning. “You work for him?”

Deadpool was offended. “Hey! I don’t work for anybody. I work for me. Me, myself and I,” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger right to his chest. “ _He_ hired _me_! Capishe?”

Peter only managed to give him a stiff nod.

Something shift within Deadpool. The seriousness dropped, replaced with googly eyes and affectionate purrs. “Unless, you know… you wanna work together? I’m…  _very open_ ,” he offered with sweet hums. “We could make an amazing team! Team-up! Crossover! Sony and Disney will eat our shit! They’ll think it’s fucking gold!”

Peter ignored the nonsense to stare down the barrel of Deadpool’s gun. “Our partnership isn’t starting off too great.”

That didn’t dissuade the unhinged man. “The best ones never start great! No one is interested if they start off as lovers—”

“Wait? Did you say  _lovers_?” Peter interjected, but Deadpool ignored him.

“They like to see character development. Enemies become friends become lovers of the night—”

Peter felt extremely uncomfortable, turning into the aisle to keep his distance from the officially psychotic individual.

Deadpool rattled on and on, distracted with his own voice that it gave Peter a chance to reevaluate his predicament. Find another way to escape this lunatic without getting pelleted with bullets. The front doors were close. A few quick strides and he could make it to them, push out and lead to the Jeep. But, perhaps Deadpool was fast too. On the trigger.

He scanned the shelves for anything that may assist him. Not much. Candy bars and gummy bears on one shelf and, jugs of oil and road maps on the other. Not many helpful options. None that would stop a bullet. Perhaps, though, enough to distract the psycho.

Peter looked back to Deadpool, still rambling nonsense. He wasn’t even paying attention.  

Time ticked down. Now or never. Every second counted.

Peter breathed deep. “Um… Mr. Deadpool, sir?”

Deadpool’s voice hushed. “Did you just interrupted me?” he questioned, dangerously. Like a man on a verge of hysteria. “Did you hijack my flow? Fuckin’ Generation Tide Pods. Show some goddamn respect to your millennials, okay? You  _never_  interrupt a monologue. That’s Shakespeare 101!”

“Err… sorry.”

And suddenly, all that tension and anxiety evaporated. Deadpool relaxed and rested his chin in his palm as he dreamily stared at him. “You’re forgiven, baby boy,” he said. “Now—what’s up? What’s your game plan?”

Peter’s muscles tightened in fear that Deadpool already knew exactly what he was going to do. “Um, I-I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said. “Are you planning to shoot me?”

“Shoot you?”

Peter nudged his head to the still loaded and pointed weapon.

Deadpool glanced at the gun in his hand. “Jesus! I keep forgetting that I’m holding this,” he said with a chuckle. “Usually I never have my guns with me. Keep leaving them in the fuckin’ taxi.” He sighed, staring at his gun with an odd affection. “Back to your fears—nah. I ain’t going to shoot you. Murder isn’t on the course today. Well, maybe. Just not you. I don’t fucking kill kids. Morals and everything.”

“But holding them at gunpoint and kidnapping them is okay?”

Deadpool tilted his head in thought. “Well—if it’s for a good cause, sure!” he replied. “But still won’t fucking kill a kid. Or torture them. I’m a rated R character. Not meant for children. So, I’m going to keep it that way.”

That was… oddly relieving and entirely disturbing. Nonetheless, Deadpool’s insurance about murder gave Peter the courage to persist in his next step.

“Okay,” he said with a nod of gratitude. “Thanks.”

Peter swiped one of the jugs of oil and squeezed on the plastic with all his might. The dull yellow liquid squirted out in a high arch and splashing right into Deadpool’s eyes.

“Motherfucking, cocksucker spider!” Deadpool cursed as he pulled away, freeing Peter from the gun range.

Peter chucked the jug right at Deadpool’s head and bolted for the front doors. The minute his feet moved, he found himself losing his balance. His feet slipped on the greasy tiles, sliding in different directions. Peter lurched at the doors, gripping the handle hard for stability. He heard the ruckus behind, items crashing and Peter’s spidey-sense seared his nerves to move faster!

He reached for the handle when something slammed right into his back. His fingertips grazed the cool metal of the handle before he crashed to the floor of the store. Jaw snapped shut and chin scraped, Peter groaned in recovery, but a heavy object kept him pinned to the floor.

A breath tickled his ear. “Where you going pal? The party is just getting started!” Deadpool said, twisting Peter’s arms into a painful grip. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Peter squirmed to throw Deadpool off him, but the crazed man pressed his gun hard right in the middle of Peter’s back. “Stop squirming like that,” he said. “It makes me wanna unsheathe my katana—”

Peter didn’t want to hear. “Get off of me!”

“Yelling doesn’t help,” Deadpool sung with sweet charm. “It’s actually one of my turn-ons.”

“What is wrong with you?” Peter blurted. How much trauma did the man endure to become this?

“Me? I’m the sanest person you’ll ever meet!” Deadpool stated. “You’re damn lucky that it was me who found you. If Blade found ya or those lame-ass Thunderbolts, you would be limbless—especially after squeezing oil right in the eyes. Fucking hurts! And now I smell like oil and crap. Orders say that you were to be captured at all costs—well, alive. No mentions of you being in one piece though.

“Plus, the Thunderbolts aren’t very fond of you,” Deadpool rattled on, not at all bothered by Peter’s attempts to shove him off his back. “Not since you strung up the Ox over the Brooklyn Bridge. Do you remember that? He certainly does. He hates it when I bring it up. Hahahaha! Anyway—he’s super-duper eager to get his hands on your neck.”

Peter recalled cocooning a bulky man over the Brooklyn Bridge near the beginning of the year. He and another man were intimidating a poor, young family out of their money. They had guns pointed and the bigger man kept knocking his knuckles into his palm in a menacing, but caricature manner. Naturally, Peter intervened and strung him and his friend up over the Brooklyn Bridge for the police to find. The incident was reported in the newspaper and Peter read that the criminals were arrested. How did they get out?

He didn’t get the chance to ask as Deadpool twisted his wrist again. He winced right as cold metal clasped around his wrist. Another jerk and Peter felt his other wrist be clamped down by another metal clasp that locked them together. Handcuffs—chained all over again.

“Okay,” Deadpool whistled, rolling off Peter’s back. “Let’s get you up.”

He yanked Peter up to his feet by the chain of the handcuffs behind him. Peter stumbled upon landing, but Deadpool held him steady before slinging his arm around Peter’s shoulders. The gun rested right above Peter’s right breast.

“See? Not bad, right? Just a pair of super-duper handcuffs. No cutting you at your knees or breaking an arm. I’m sweet like that,” the crazed man explained to Peter, patting his cheeks. “Now—why don’t I drop you off back at the super-hero day-care camp?”

Peter violently shook his head. He pulled back, away from Deadpool. “No—I’m not going back there!”

Deadpool jerked Peter back to him. “No can do, buddy pal. Gotta take you back.”

“Why?” Peter demanded, eyes and cheeks red in both anger and frustration. “Because of money? Is that it? Did Mr. Stark offer money?”

“Money is a big incentive.”

Peter was disgusted. “What about all that talk on morals?”

“Look—Spidey,” Deadpool growled, his flirtatious behavior gone. “It’s not personal. I like you. A lot. But, I gotta do what I gotta do.

“Also, I need to meet quota every month. Collect so many enhanced pricks and drop them off. Get money. Live the high life,” Deadpool listed off from the top of his head, the gun moving in odd angles. “Plus, there’s the bonus that I don’t have to participate in that shitty day-care camp. So… win-win for me.”

“And a lose-lose for me,” Peter grumbled in protest. “So that’s it. That’s why you are doing this. Sacrifice other people’s freedoms for your own?”

“Again, nothing personal,” Deadpool said, but his tone was not its normal high-pitch. It sounded sad. “You’ll be fine. I heard through the grapevine that everyone there is taking real good care of you.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Yeah—if you think being trained to become a child soldier is a good thing.”

“Better you learn how to protect yourself than not,” Deadpool returned, not letting Peter’s attempt to reach his humanity touch him. “You don't want to keep looking like some lost, pathetic, kicked puppy for the rest of your life now, do you?"

"I don't look like a—"

"Agree to disagree," he dismissed Peter's protest. "You always act like an over-excited puppy when you go up against your enemies. Yapping and jumping and flipping around... it looks cute, but no one will ever take you seriously. You want to be taken seriously? You want to be seen like a bad-ass motherfucker that I know is wanting to blossom out of that old onesie of yours? Then do what I told you last time—always bring every weapon to a knife fight. Keeps things interesting.”

That didn’t make sense at all to Peter. “What are you talking about and… and how do you even know all that stuff about me?” he questioned. “You said we met before, but I have no memory of you.”

Deadpool paused. He stared, unflinchingly, at Peter’s face. The man’s ugly face morphed into bewilderment. “Shit—wait—hold up! Stop the music!” he snapped his fingers at an empty space. “Dim the lightening. I think Tom Holland here forgot his lines again.”

Tom Holland what? Peter glanced around, but no one was around except for him and Deadpool. “Err... Mr. Deadpool?”

Deadpool put a finger over Peter’s lips. “Hush!” he said, pulling up his phone and typing something into Google. “Hold on. Gotta read where we are at… be only a minute.”

Peter returned Deadpool’s bewilderment, brows arching dubiously high as he tried to get a peek at the man’s phone.

Deadpool spent a few minutes reading something over his phone before groaned, entirely upset and filled with disappointment.

“Aw, man! She really did an Edward Scissorhands cut in the early chapters, didn’t she?” he quipped, pocketing the phone. “Okay, let’s review. Sparknotes version, obviously. You—Spider-man. Me—Deadpool. Met in New York. Astoria. Asked you to come with me on an adventure. Broke my heart. Crushed it really. Knocked you out. Well, you knocked yourself out when you ran head first into that fire escape ladder. Brought you to Stark with promises that I could write to you.”

“Write to me?” Peter muffled his surprise by that. “Why would you want to—”

“Any of that ring the any bells in your head?” Deadpool interrupted, tapping his gun against Peter’s head.

Peter shivered when the gun bumped his skull. “N-No. I don’t remember any of that,” he said. “All I remember is waking up in a room… alone.”

Deadpool huffed his indignation. “That rich ass-hat,” he muttered. “He said my letters would get to you. Explains why I never got any responses from you. Maybe I’ll have Stark put it in writing. Update my contract. Maybe even allow visitation rights. You think he would go for that?”

Peter gawked at the man. “You're insane, aren't you?”

“Depends on your definition,” Deadpool challenged. “I think I’m a genius. Others may think delusional, but in all honesty, they say it because they are jealous of my superb mind.”

“No, it's because they think you are literally crazy.”

“Potato, potato.”

“It’s potato, potahto.”

Deadpool shrugged. “Don’t care!” he said, grabbing Peter’s chain link to drag him off. “Let’s get this over with. I got errands to run. Money to burn. And an episode of The Great British Bake-Off to finish. If Martha doesn’t win, I will scissor that goatee off Paul Hollywood's face…”

Peter’s mind whirled with other strategies to save himself. “Please! You got it wrong! They don’t care about me. At all! They’ll lock me away forever! Torture me and… and…” He remembered Leo’s words about another option to those who caused more problems than necessary. “They’ll put me in the hole!”

Deadpool’s scarred, melting face visibly reacted. It almost looked like it concaved by how deep his furrowed brows went and his scowl twisting in taut angles. “That won’t happen.”

“Yes it will!” Of all the attempts he made to escape, they would take him to the hole or whatever it was that got everyone afraid. Including Deadpool, it seemed. “They’ll take me there and I will—”

The lunatic gave Peter a hard shake. “Stop it!” he snapped. “No one is putting you in the hole. Got it?”

“I don’t—”

The looney shook him harder. “Forget about the hole! Okay? Just—sweet, motherfucking Wolverine!—you’re going to be fine. Basically a slap on the wrist. And a swearing-in that you’ll stay good from here on out. Okay? That’s it! No one is going to put you in the damn, fucking hole.”

Deadpool inhaled deep, letting all the heated anger out in one, steady stream of air. “Now, let’s get going. We’ll take your ride.”

He yanked at Peter’s chain to drag him out of the store. Tripping over items fallen over in the scuffle, Peter felt a breeze brush against his scalp the moment Deadpool dragged him outside.

“Sweet ride!” Deadpool whistled his approval at Peter’s borrowed Jeep. “Way better than my station wagon. Then again, I didn’t have many options from the parking lot. You? Did you steal this from a neighbor?”

Peter twisted his neck around to look over his shoulder toward the Jeep. He couldn’t let Deadpool drive the Jeep into the Compound. If Mr. Stark recognized it, he would get Dr. Banner in serious trouble.

“Jeep is busted,” Peter blurted in hopes to prevent Deadpool from using it.

Deadpool blinked. “Huh?”

“Broken, I mean. The… engine died. It’s why I, um…”

Deadpool tipped his head back and let out a rip-roaring laugh. “Oh… baby boy,” he huffed out. “You are a terrible liar. Might want to work on that when you get back.”

He frisked Peter’s pockets and found the keys. “Now—let’s get some gas into that pretty Jeep of yours,” he said. “And we can carry out our fantasy road trip. Oooh! Do you want to do carpool karaoke? I saw it on an episode of James Corden. Loved it! I’ll let you go first since I’m a nice guy and all.”

Peter was at the end of his rope. “Wait!”

“What now?” Deadpool asked, bored. “Gotta another lie for me?”

“Um… no, but,” Peter paused before he leaned to Deadpool. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Deadpool’s face scrunched in confusion.

Peter slammed his head hard into Deadpool’s forehead that he thought he heard the man's nose crunch. The strong blow forced the lunatic to let Peter go. Free from the man's hold, Peter jumped and slid his handcuffed arms underneath like a jump rope, bringing his arms from his back to his front. He was so thankful one of his abilities was extreme flexibility.

Deadpool recovered, his hands tenting his face as blood dribbled down over his lips to his chin. "Sweet baby Jesus! Fucking strong baby!" he exclaimed, but not in anger. More out of surprise.

He dropped his hands down to his waist and Peter nearly gagged at seeing his destruction. The nose had practically flattened with blood squirting and dribbling out of the nostrils. It looked incredibly painful and yet, Deadpool showed no sign of distress over it. Hell, Peter's best description would be the lunatic was radiating with joy. 

"There you go!" Deadpool clapped his hands in approval. "There's the Spider-man! Knew you had it in you." He tossed aside the gun and pulled out two sais out of nowhere it seemed, spinning them like little fans. “Let’s play!”

By play, Deadpool meant leaping up like a ballerina and spinning his sais right at him. Peter easily dodged the blades, the silver blades missing him by a few inches. Without his web-shooters and hands chained together, his fighting skills were limited. Good thing he remembered a few things from his tortured days at the Compound.

Peter may not remember his last encounter with Deadpool, but he wouldn’t forget this one. The crazed man was surprisingly as flexible and agile as him! And his lack of pain made Peter believe the man himself was enhanced.

He kept dodging the sais, the blades stabbing air, concrete and at one point, a salt bag that Peter threw at the man to knock him off. Salt scattered all over the lot, Peter struggled to get a good grip on his feet and Deadpool used that to his advantage. He kept hammering him, never letting Peter the opportunity to take a moment.

Peter snatched the man’s wrist and, recalling his training with Agent Davis, twisted it and threw Deadpool over his shoulder and right into the parking lot. Deadpool let out a groaned gasp.

“Oooh…” Deadpool moaned, laying on the ground. “You got me head over heels! Swept me off my feet, lover-boy!”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “You know I’m fifteen.”

“I can wait.”

Peter rolled his eyes. He was done with this. “Good-bye, Mr. Deadpool.”

“No—wait!”

Peter didn’t wait nor listen to Deadpool’s please. He turned away for the Jeep, wishing to get far away from him.

Suddenly, a hand latched onto his ankle and jerked him right back to the ground. Pebbles of salt dug and embedded into his arms and chin upon landing as another tug dragged him right next to Deadpool.

Deadpool turned to his side, his eyes gazing right into Peter. “You are so cute when you’re scared,” he said. “Did you know that?’

Peter jerked his knee right into the Deadpool’s precious jewels.

Deadpool reacted accordingly. “Wow—second base!” he wooed in faint. “Usually, I require dinner first.”

Peter rolled away, but Deadpool grabbed his hand. He clutched it tight. Peter tugged his hand away from the man’s grip, but Deadpool only squeezed harder.

“Let go of me!” Peter gritted.

“I can’t!” Deadpool said, innocently. “It helps me focus.”

“Focus on what?” Not that Peter cared. He didn’t care for the bizarre man’s reasoning because nothing he said would make sense.

Deadpool caressed the side of Peter’s face. “You.”

Peter practically ripped his hand out of Deadpool’s deadly grip. He swung his legs up and landed back on his feet. Deadpool did as well. The man no longer acting hurt—physically.

The man’s hand was over his heart. “Petey! You’re breaking my heart!” he mockingly cried. “You’re going down a path I can’t follow!”

“Are you quoting Star Wars to me?”

“Impressed, right?” Deadpool said. “See? I know you pretty well. It’s why we are best friends.”

“No, we’re not,” Peter rejected, snatching one of the fuel hose and aiming it at Deadpool. “Ned is my best friend.”

Deadpool wildly snapped his head in every direction, even bending over to look between his legs. “I don’t see a Ned here,” he commented. “Guess he’s not as good of a friend as you think he is. But I’m here. I’ll be your best friend.”

He stepped forward as if to give Peter a hug and Peter took that moment to squeeze the grip of the hose. Gasoline splashed Deadpool’s body, but the man had no reaction to it. He pursued onward, getting closer and closer to Peter to the point he abandoned the fuel and rushed for the Jeep.

Except Deadpool blocked his path to freedom. And it didn’t help that the man was dangling the Jeep keys in his hands. “Forgetting these, Spidey?”

Peter groaned and whipped around behind the pole to hide for a moment. He needed more time to find another way out of the situation. Steal Deadpool’s car? With what keys? And Deadpool wouldn’t give him the time to hot-wire it either.

He was running out of options.

“You’re running out of options, Spidey!” Deadpool sang. “Come on—make this easier on both of us. Besides, you won’t get out of here by car. Not with the road blocks and the nearby towns all under state of emergencies.”

What?

“Yeah!” Deadpool said as if Peter said it aloud rather than in his head. “The Big Cheeseball is going all out to recapture you. No expense is too much in bringing the Spiderling back.”

Peter saw Deadpool’s shadow grow larger, coming closer to where Peter hid behind the pole. He had no options. Nothing left except to fight and run back into the woods. Or, if he could knock Deadpool out for a few minutes, he could use the phone in the station to make a call—

Deadpool’s shadow was gone!

Peter’s muscles seized in fright as he peeked out from his spot to search for the man. Where did he go?

A face fell from above, close enough to Peter. Lips puckered and neared Peter’s own mouth.

“Give me a kiss,” Deadpool made kissing sounds.

To which Peter responded with a punch to the face.

“Owie! That’s gonna leave a mark!” Deadpool let himself drop from the fuel tank he climbed, landing back on the ground. “Come on, Spidey. It was all in good fun. Think of all the fan-girls and fan-boys who would re-read this chapter all over again. Maybe even leave comments. Love letters…”

Peter shoved Deadpool mid-rambled and sprinted back to the store. He heard Deadpool cry out in despair at another rejection. His spidey-sense warned him to run faster or duck. And, as if his body took command on its own, he dropped in time for a long sword flying right over him and stabbed right into the doors of the station.

What the—

Peter twisted around and found Deadpool waving right at him. He looked from the sword back to the lunatic. “Where did you get that?”

“I had it with me the whole time,” Deadpool said. “Didn’t you know?”

Peter would remember if Deadpool was carrying a long sword. What was that? A katana?

They faced each other. A pivotal moment was upon them. Peter realized everything rode on him winning. To lose… he could not let that happen. He got so far and to have it be taken away, to be thrown into a hole for the rest of his life, it was a nightmare he didn’t want to live out.

Peter prepped into position. It was going to be the fight of his life.

Deadpool zeroed in on him. “So… you wanna tango?”

He didn’t want to, but he had no choice.

There was a tug in the back of his mind. Spidey-sense overworking, but that was to be expected with danger ever present at the moment. He brought his fisted hands up. Just like he practiced at the Compound—no! He needed to forget everything about that place.

After his last stand, of course.

Deadpool made his approach, dancing up to the plate for the smack-down. And naturally, he was doing some kind of monologue. “And the crowd roots and cheers for the Deadpool as he makes his way to the floor,” he said. “The man of the hours is looking fine as always. The women and men cannot keep their eyes away from him. Here he comes, winding up for the pitch and—and—you got to be fucking kidding me!”

Peter waggled his brows in bewilderment by Deadpool’s upset. His spidey-sense was still in high alert, warning him of approaching danger, but Deadpool hadn’t moved. Deadpool looked passed him, over his shoulder and up. Almost something was floating above Peter’s head.

Peter turned to look, despite knowing he shouldn’t take his eyes off the deranged man. Everything happened too fast! Something flew at Peter’s face and a sharp, devastating shock coursed through his very blood. He opened his mouth to scream, but the pain contorted him into silence.

All of his senses started to fail, shutting his body down.

“Hey!” Peter heard Deadpool whined. “I had it all under control!”

Something large landed, metal scraping and groaning as it moved. Peter’s vision went hazy and he couldn’t see well. He didn’t even know if he was standing up or laying like a puddle on the floor.

Metal touched Peter’s jaw, turning his head in a different direction. Peter tried to focus and resist, but all of his senses died and he became nothing.

* * *

Tony Stark landed on his private platform. The landing pad lit up as FRIDAY addressed him of the awaiting situation in the lower levels of the Compound.

“Would you like me to send Dr. Cho to you?” his AI asked after her report.

Tony looked down at the boy bundled in his arms. “That’s all right,” he said. “Vision nearby?”

FRIDAY gave him an affirmative. “He’s outside your suite.”

“Send him in.”

Vision walked right through the walls, spying Peter immediately. “Is he all right?”

“Him?” Tony lifted the boy up a bit. The kid’s head rolled off Tony’s arm, forcing Iron Man to readjust him. “He’s fine. Knocked out. Kid went toe-toe with Deadpool. Again.”

Vision sadly shook his head. “Poor child,” said the android. “I never liked that man. He is too… excessive.”

“You are way too polite to that maniac,” Tony said as his Iron Man suit degenerated back into the small compact in the middle of his chest. “Nonetheless, he found him before anyone else did.”

“Where?”

“At some obscured gas station,” Tony answered. “When I got there, it looked like Deadpool tried to take the kid’s head off.”

“Good thing he failed.”

“Good thing I came when I did,” Tony corrected Vision. If he decided to not go in that direction, the boy may be far too traumatized to ever recover. “Come over here, Vision.”

Vision stepped right next to Tony, uncertain what Tony needed from him. Tony promptly dumped Peter into Vision’s hands. “Take him to the medical wing,” he ordered. “Dr. Cho will know what to do with him.”

Vision looked down at the bruised and dirtied boy in his arms. “Sir? What will she do to him?”

Tony smiled at Vision. For being an android with more focus on knowledge rather than emotions, he acted far more concern than he’s ever showed to any human outside of Wanda. “Nothing bad, Vision,” he said to him. “I promise. She’s going to give him a health check. Make sure he didn’t break any more bones or have any ticks. Clean him up a bit. Normal stuff. All good things.”

“And then?”

Knowledge over emotion. Of course, Vision knew there was more.

“And then, she’ll put a microchip in his body,” Tony answered. “That way, he can’t break it off him like he did with the bracelet.”

“Will it hurt him?”

“Nah,” Tony replied, looking back down at the boy in Vision’s arms. “Short-stuff is made of iron. He went up against Deadpool on his own. The kid won’t feel a thing.”

“That is good to know,” Vision seemed to relax a little as he smiled down at the unconscious boy. “He looks thin. Does he eat?”

“He will soon enough,” Tony replied and he checked the time. “Fantastic! I officially missed fifteen minutes of that meeting with Ross.”

Vision looked puzzled. “You are thrilled to be late?”

“With Thaddeus? Always,” Tony answered as he never cared for Thaddeus grand plans for the Accords. “It’s nothing big. He overheard about the escape and I need to calm his head back down from nuclear. Otherwise, he’ll take it out on the kid.

“Drop the kiddo with Cho,” Tony said as he headed to his bedroom to change outfits. “Tell her to handle him with discretion. Well, she knows already, but remind her. Oh—and Vision?”

Vision stopped at the door. “Yes?”

“Keep an eye out on the kid,” Tony asked of him. “I can’t trust Reynolds after this.”

Vision looked honored and troubled at the same time. “What about Ms. Romanoff?” he questioned. “Is she not already looking after boy?”

Tony ran his hand down his jawline. “She is.”

“Then why do you ask me to watch him too?”

Tony sniffed as he crossed his arms. “Because,” he started as his eyes wandered right back to the boy, “I don’t trust her anymore.”

Not wanting to give an explanation for his sudden distrust in one of his most trusted advisors and friends, Tony waved Vision off with urgency that Peter needed medical care right away. Vision obliged and flew away, carrying the troubled boy with him.

Meanwhile, Tony went to his suite and picked his outfit to wear when he strolled into the meeting with his best smug appearance. He already had his lines of wit ready to use against Thaddeus Ross.

Once he finished his meeting with Ross, he needed to have a long talk with Natasha Romanoff. Just to reaffirm loyalties.

Hers and another.


	9. Along Came a Spider

Peter didn't want to talk about it. 

When he woke to being strapped to a gurney with no wiggle room, Peter knew of his defeat. He thought back to his last memories, but nothing floated back to him. His last memory was of Deadpool and getting ready for a fight. Then—darkness.

Did Deadpool do something to him? 

If not Deadpool, Peter knew Dr. Cho did. 

After he woke up in a frightened fit, Dr. Cho explained what happened after he was knocked unconscious. They checked him over for ticks and ensured his thumb healed correctly before the operation. Peter’s stomach curdled as Dr. Cho described the process of implanting a microchip in his body. Peter panicked and looked to both his arms for any incisions, but saw nothing. Only smooth skin. 

Dr. Cho was not eager to share the location of the chip. She promised it was somewhere safe and that it would not interfere with any vital organs. Despite that assurance, she insisted Peter remain in the medical bay for a week to reaffirm his body was not rejecting it.

Peter, obviously, rejected it. In his panic, he cried and begged Dr. Cho to remove it from his body. When that didn’t deter her, he declared that she had no right to do that to him. His yells were heard and people rushed in to restrain him, though Peter found it pointless. He couldn’t move with all the secured traps locking him in place already.

Any time Peter threw a fit, someone came in with a needle full of... well, he didn't know what the component was, but it always drugged him into submission. He hated feeling weak and vulnerable. The last time he ever felt such frailty was on the streets of Queens, clinging onto a diminishing hope and heartache. 

When his stint in the medical bay ended, Peter was returned to his daily activities of schooling and training. Of course, more was added to his schedule. A therapist. Twice a week. No exceptions. 

The only other thing changed was his relations with his teammates. Mr. Reynolds, in particular, forgone any attempt at a friendly demeanor toward him. He was harsher, more stern and unforgiving for any struggles or failures from Peter. With Peter's new power level (an eight!), Mr. Reynolds refused to coddle him and expected him to be stronger than the rest of the team (minus, Luke Cage). He was not particularly mean to Peter, but he become more dismissive and nonchalant about his mental state. 

Unfortunately, that meant Mr. Reynolds’ lack of discipline toward one unpleasant individual. Powers immensely enjoyed Peter's misery. He countlessly mocked Peter for his failed escape.

“How do you fuck up that?” Powers cackled. “How hard is it to get lost in the woods and  _stay_  lost?”

Peter ignored him, but Powers continued to mock him for days. Insult after insult, Peter endured it with silence. What could he do? The man was right. He failed to escape. He had nothing.

The others treated him basically the same as they did before; albeit, a bit harder on him. With his new power level status, they no longer felt the need to be gentler with him. Luke made him do heavier weights when partnered together. Jack pushed him to run faster—only because Jack wanted to beat him. Jack was super competitive and the moment Peter received his new power level status, Jack had been adamant about making sure Peter was doing his best to ensure he won fairly against Peter in everything. Lady Deathstrike was aggressive as normal and Silk Fever sometimes shot flares at him, but nothing dangerous. Nothing he couldn't tolerate after a few days of it.

The only two people who didn’t act differently toward him were Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons—his teachers. They continued his studies like he never ran off. Leo even brought up a design they discussed during his last class. Leo talked nonstop about it, energetic and beaming over the rough-draft blueprints and Peter felt guilty for not having the same enthusiasm. He couldn’t force happiness when he wasn’t. Jemma was kind and wasn’t necessarily as forceful as Leo to get Peter to engage in experiments. She didn’t act overly eager, but she was still all smiles and warm when teaching him biology and chemistry.

Fitz-Simmons never asked what happened to him. They didn’t ask how he was feeling or where did he go or why he do it, like some other people in the building. They stayed on topic, refusing to cross any of the boundaries that didn’t involve his education. So, Peter remained respectively polite to them despite not having the heart to participate in any of the activities or lessons they assigned. He did what he was told and completed his assignments. That was all Peter could offer to them. 

After school and training, Peter normally had some recreation. Time for himself to do whatever he liked, but all of that was revoked. He was no longer allowed to go anywhere by himself. Library, cafeteria, and even walking to and from places, he always had Simon with him wherever he went.

Simon hated him. He blamed Peter for his lowly status as “babysitter”, which Peter wanted to tell him off for it. He didn’t ask Simon to watch him twenty-four/seven, but Simon nonetheless blamed him. Simon was there when Peter woke up, in the corner of the room during his school lessons and training, sitting next to him in the cafeteria to ensure he ate everything on his plate, and also in the bathroom when Peter had to go. At the end of the day, it was Simon who Peter saw last, because he would check to make sure Peter was locked in his room for the night.

It was annoying to be tailed on a daily basis. He couldn’t do anything in private. Everything speck of his life was under constant supervision and if he did anything wrong, well, Peter didn’t want to talk about it.

But he had to upon his visitations with the psychiatrist.

* * *

Dr. Deborah Samson was a highly accomplished child specialist. She graduated from Harvard. She earned multiple awards in psychology, publishing in many journals about child behaviors. Her striking record was the reason they called her first and she accepted it without any hesitation. Peter was not surprised, considering it must be wonderful to be paid handsomely while also getting to study an enhanced child.

The room was small. Not large or lavished with anything fancy. It looked like a typical doctor’s office. White walls, beige carpet and grey furnishing with a green plant here and there, along with hotel art décor. Dull and plain.

Dr. Samson sat in one chair and allowed Peter the couch. “In case you need a moment to lie down,” she said, taking her seat.

In the corner of the room was Simon. He took his seat and didn’t move. There went doctor-patient confidentiality.

Dr. Samson had her notepad on her lap and a recorder on the table between them. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s for record purposes only. In case I need to go back to our session,” she said, getting it ready and clicking the start button.

Peter stared at it. “Okay,” he said. What could he do about it? He had no choice in the matter. Not anymore.

Dr. Samson scribbled into her notebook. “So, Mr. Parker, how are you feeling today?”

Typical first question. “Fine.”

“How’s your day been?" she asked. "Have you done anything today?"

Peter shrugged. "School."

“What did you do at school?”

“Lessons.”

There was a loud grunt from the corner of the room. Peter didn't need to see Simon to know he was indignant by Peter's bland responses.

Even Dr. Samson was aware. "Peter—can I call you Peter?" Peter only shrugged, uncaring before he gave a nod of approval. "Peter, therapy is a two-way street. You gotta give to get something. If you want to be better—"

“I'm not sick.”

"I didn't say you were," Dr. Samson countered, gently. "I'm saying if you want to  _feel_  better, then you have to open up a little bit. Be receptive to the changes and learn to understand them. That's what I am here for. To help you understand."

Peter breathed in resignation. He didn't need help in that department. Life was always changing for him. It was one tragedy after another, and Peter was well-versed in dramatic life-changes. What he didn't understand was why everyone there needed him to be happy and receptive of his predicament? He wasn't and no amount of talking would change it. Peter won't let them brainwash him. His mind was far stronger to let that happen. 

“I don't need help in understanding," Peter said. "I get it.”

"What do you get?" Dr. Samson leaned back in her chair, pencil at the ready.

Peter looked from her pencil to the recorder. "I get that they need me to be compliant. To stop causing trouble so that they can focus on the more important things.”

“You believe you are unimportant?”

“To them, sure,” Peter answered. He knew he was more of a hassle than an asset.

“I think you’re important,” Dr. Samson said. “I also think others here find you important as well.”

Peter wrangled his brows forward, frowning. She’s been at the Compound for less than a day. She knew nothing about the situation, but he didn’t want to get into an argument with her.

“If you say so,” was all Peter said.

Dr. Samson sucked in a breath with a hint of disappointment. “You know what? Let’s start getting to know each other first. Get comfortable being in each other’s presence. Sound good?”

Peter nodded along because, again, he had no choice on the matter.

Dr. Samson went on talking a little about her background. Grew up in the Midwest. Parents were both teachers. Brother a teacher as well. She wanted more. She went onto become a doctor, but found the brain and mind far more fascinating than the body. She got married. Got divorced. Re-married again. No children, much to her disappointment, which was why she works with kids. 

“Now—what about you, Peter?” she asked after finishing her miniature biography. “Who is Peter Parker?”

Peter hated that question. When writing out his high school applications, they asked that question: Describe yourself in one page. Peter only ever came up with two sentences.  _My name is Peter Parker. I like science._  That was it. Aunt May and Uncle Ben always claimed he was too hard on himself. He’s an incredible child with many talents and a good head on his shoulders. “ _You’re a rare specimen of your generation, Petey_ ,” his Uncle once said. “ _You will succeed wherever you go._ ”

What made him that “rare specimen” Peter didn’t know. After the spider bite, he truly believed in Uncle Ben’s words. He was finally special enough to be someone, but even that lost its shine after…

Point was… Peter wasn’t someone interesting. He was a regular, nerdy kid that got taunted by his other peers for his geek interests and second-hand clothes.

Dr. Samson waited, dissecting him every second with that focus gaze. Peter hated it. Being put under a microscope wasn’t something he enjoyed. He liked being in the shadows rather in the spotlight. Attention drew too many problems and criticisms. It’s how Flash started picking on him. All because he beat him in academic duel in front of the whole school. Flash had been awful since that day.

He wanted Dr. Samson to stop staring, so he started talking. “Umm… well, I’m fifteen. Lived in New York all my life.”

There was a long pause afterwards that Dr. Samson piped up. “You stopped,” she noted. “Is everything all right? Do you need some more time to—”

Peter shook his head. “Err… no. That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m fifteen,” Peter answered with a half-shrug. “I haven’t lived.”

A deep sigh resonated within the psychiatrist. Her hands folded over her notebook. “Whereabouts did you live in New York?”

“Doesn’t it say in my file?”

Dr. Samson pressed her lips. “Not specifically,” she said. “Only that you are from Queens. Which part?”

“Forest Hills.”

There was some warmth returning to her face. “I’ve been there. Went to a great restaurant near Austin Road. You may have heard of it—Aged?” she said. “You know of the place?”

Peter nodded. He knew the restaurant. His aunt always stopped outside to look at the menu only to walk away with a click of her tongue. “ _Those oysters better have pearls inside if I am going to pay that much for a meal.”_

Dr. Samson smiled a bit more. “The steaks are amazing!” she praised. “Best I ever had.”

“I imagined they’re good.”

The smile faltered a bit. “You never had their steaks before?”

“I never set foot in that restaurant,” Peter corrected. “Overpriced. Those oysters better come with pearls if anyone is going to pay that much for a meal.”

And the visit dragged from there. Dr. Samson seemed to be in a rut. After the restaurant mistake, she tried to lead him into discussing his upbringing. She deduced he didn’t grow up with a lot of money and tried to talk to him about those struggles, but Peter didn’t take the bait.

“Money can’t buy happiness,” he replied to her intellectual pecking.

When time was up, Peter couldn’t wait to leave. Dr. Samson gave a quick brief, mostly lamenting Peter’s lack of engagement and insisted he tried a few meditation techniques. Peter didn’t get the chance to object because Simon spoke for him, telling the good doctor that he would have Peter review them.

Not that Peter performed the meditation or the thinking process she laid out for him. He merely did a little of it only to satisfy Simon’s demand. Then, he pushed it aside and forgot about it.

Most of his visitations with Dr. Samson ended the same as the first one. Peter being reluctant to open up to her and Dr. Samson scrabbling to find ways to connect with Peter. The second visit she brought board games—chess, Connect Four, Risk and a deck of cards. She decided rather than talking, they could play a game. She picked one and he could pick the next one. The chess board was all set up, and Peter knew what she hoped to analyze during the game.

Granted, Peter was surprised to learn she was a novice at the game. Almost like she learned the game only yesterday. Another thing Peter noticed was that every more Peter made, she moved into a position for him to win. She was playing for him to win. A favor or a gift. Something to make him feel happy and accomplished.

Peter wasn’t falling for it.

He, instead, did the opposite and made sure she won. It threw her off completely.

Once chess was over, Dr. Samson allowed him to pick a game. Peter picked a deck of cards. “It’s called Speed,” he said to her as he set the game up. “This is how it goes.”

He explained briefly and they played a few rounds until Peter won all the cards. Dr. Samson was too lost in the game and without any fast reflex skills, she was hopeless in ever winning. As she piled the cards back into the little box, she watched Peter sitting patiently across from her.

“You play card games a lot?” Dr. Samson asked.

Peter shook his head. “No—not really.”

“Oh?” She was mildly surprised. “What about board games?”

“Um… no,” Peter answered again. The last time he had a board out was a few years ago. Since then, he has been preoccupied with other things. “I haven’t played any in years.”

That brought a bummer to Dr. Samson. She looked at her stack of games, realizing it was all rather pointless. “Then what do you do for fun, Peter?” she asked. “I’m curious? What do children in Queens, New York, do for fun?”

“Hang-out?”

“Hang-out and do what?”

Peter didn’t know. He and Ned were exceptions to the general population. They were the subservience of their peers. The oddballs. The weirdos—as Michelle called them.

“I don’t know. Just… stuff,” Peter answered. He missed Ned. He always came up with the better activities to do. He could use his friend right now.

Peter slouched in his seat, hand going through his hair. “Yeah… just do whatever we feel like at the moment.”

“And what do you feel like doing at this very moment?” Dr. Samson questioned.

“Be with my aunt.”

He shouldn't have said that. She may use it against him. Or think she made some miraculous breakthrough! It wasn't, but she may take it as such. In any case, if she was good at her job, she would already know that would be his answer before even meeting him.

Dr. Samson adjusted her skirt as she lifted her pencil to her small notepad. "What do you and your aunt do? I imagine with it being just the two of you, you're pretty close to one another."

Aunt May was all he had of his family. He loved her. To him, May Parker was his mother as he never got the choice to know his biological mother. That was made for him when his parents' plane crashed. When he pictured what his life would be if his parents never got on that plane, he still pictured it being the same as with his aunt and uncle. Sometimes, he still pictures them rather his parents. And he felt guilty on behalf of the parents who loved him, but—like him—never got the chance to know him. 

“Peter?" Dr. Samson called out to him. He must have been quiet for too long. "You okay?”

“Yeah," Peter responded. "Just... thinking. We, um... we just hang-out.”

That brought another round of disappointed sighs from Dr. Samson. "Like watching movies, maybe? TV?"

Peter shrugged again. "Yeah. Sometimes," he said. "We do ordinary family things."

The visit ended very similar to the first one. Dr. Samson disappointed by the little information Peter offered and Peter dying to get out of the room. He never enjoyed the nitpicking of someone’s mind and even less so when he was aware that her responsibility fell more align with brainwashing him to be happy of his situation.

The majority of visitations with the therapist went more or less like those two visits. Dr. Samson tried her best to connect with him, and Peter did little as possible. He wasn’t rude, but he want to establish a connection with her. Not like the old therapist he used to meet after the Horrible Night. He was much more sympathetic and compassionate to Peter’s dilemma. He never looked at Peter like a big career win or a golden opportunity to step-up in the world.

And, he didn’t hold him hostage. That was a big bonus.

Still, Dr. Samson never gave up. Some days, the doctor spoke little. Other days, she brought in activities for them to do together. One time, she brought in her laptop to watch a TV show of his choice. Peter picked the first one he saw on the line-up:  _Gilmore Girls_. He thought they talked too fast, but Dr. Samson heard every word and enjoyed it. Peter—not so much.

He gave Dr. Samson credit for trying to engage with him. Even Simon tried to force him to participate, but Peter wasn’t going to spill the beans to a stranger. Especially to a person who clearly had more interests in  _him_  rather than _helping_ him. He wondered what she did with the recordings at the end of each session, and he speculated what she did with the information. Was she writing a book? A Tell-All? Or maybe it was to give it to someone else. Like… Mr. Stark? Dr. Cho? Mr. Reynolds?

It was a curiosity that kept scratching the back of his mind that he decided to ask at the end of one of their many visits.

“Dr. Samson?” Peter asked as she began to put away notebook and pencil. “May I ask a question?”

That certainly lit Dr. Samson’s face up. She even pulled her notebook away from her purse and back onto her lap. “Of course, Peter! You can ask me any question.”

“Do you talk to Mr. Stark about these sessions?”

“Excuse me?”

Peter nudged in the direction of her recorder. “The recordings. The notebook,” he said. “Do you report it all back to him?”

Dr. Samson shifted. She tried to subtly look to Simon, but Peter saw it. She looked unsure if that was a question that could be answered. Which, in turn, gave Peter his answer.

“Thanks for letting me know,” Peter said, getting up from his seat to head off to his mid-afternoon practice.

Mr. Stark knew everything. Peter found it a bit hypocritical of the man to not want anything to do with him, and yet, goes to extreme efforts to keep him lockdown in the Compound and asks for his psychoanalysis reports after each session. It unnerved Peter that Mr. Stark dismissed him as nothing; and yet, controls Peter’s life with an iron grip. What the hell was that all about?

As he walked back to his room to change, Peter turned to Simon. “Why does Mr. Stark care?”

Simon didn’t even bat an eyelash. “Mr. Stark cares that everyone here is in their best shape,” he responded. “Including you.”

“He didn’t seem to care that much at the beginning.”

“Don’t mistake his interests with caring about your well-being,” Simon rebuffed. “You are simply another enhanced person. That’s it.”

They reached the door and Simon shoved Peter right into the room. “Now—hurry up and change. You’re late anyway.”

* * *

Peter was on auto-pilot, moving from one place to the next. Routine was the same. Wake up, breakfast/pre-morning workout, school, lunch, therapy session, afternoon workout, dinner, doctor’s visit, evening workout and finishing with falling asleep. Depending on the day, the schedule changed up a bit. It didn’t confuse Peter. After weeks of doing the same thing over and over, he fell into a pattern without needing to know the days.  Nothing changed. Time passed and Peter held everything together. He refused to break-down, but they often pushed him to the brink. Particularly Powers, who was no longer tethered to a leash like he was at the beginning. 

The only time he felt relaxed was when asleep in his-appointed room or when he was with Leo Fitz or Jemma Simmons. While he didn't engage much with them like he did before, it was nice to be around others who were similar to him. Fascinated with gadgets and science. Leo sometimes brought him treats. He swiped them from the "upper-class" break-room as he liked to call it. The treats were far more gourmet than Peter was accustomed to. Unfortunately, Simon didn't like that and if Peter wasn't quick enough, Simon took the goodies away from him. Leo would get annoyed on his behalf.

"Why you stealing it from him? C'mon—he can have one little piece of candy," Leo argued. 

Simon was relentless. He refused to back-down. "The kid's on a nutrition plan," he said. "This will upset it."

In better terms, it was Simon's way of punishing Peter for making him become his babysitter. He was on a strict nutrition diet, apparently designed to keep him healthy and energized, but that didn’t mean he was denied sweets. Again, Simon’s punishment to make Peter miserable. Nonetheless, it didn't stop Leo or Jemma from trying to sneak him some kind of treat for him to enjoy every now and then. 

Peter assumed it was their way of apology. They cannot help him, but maybe they can make his life a little less depressing. It kind of worked, but it didn’t last long enough.

Mr. Reynolds remained passive toward Peter. Strict teacher, showed little emotional support and always expected better from him. Nothing was good enough to please him. He put him through rigor exercises that left him in a crippling exhaustion.   

One of his favorite exercises was pitting two of them together, hand-to-hand combat only. Peter wasn’t good. As Spider-man, his fighting technique was fight from afar and use his web-shooters. Peter was beginning to see he relied too much on his web-shooters. Every fight resulted in him losing. He never won. Not once.

“Mr. Parker?” Mr. Reynolds called from the group. “You and… Mr. Powers.”

Peter painstakingly groaned to himself. Powers always enjoyed beating the crap out of Peter. While Peter was far stronger than Powers, his lack of fighting technique left Peter vulnerable and confused, giving Powers the chance to beat Peter down.

They both took to the mat. Peter swallowed as he faced Powers’ gleeful face. The man was eager to get the fighting started.

Mr. Reynolds called out the directions and warnings before he commanded them to go.

Peter took no pleasure in fighting. None. Violence was a last resort for him. Best to disarm and secure the bad guy. For Powers—not so much. He wasted no time slamming his whole body weight right into Peter, nearly knocking the breath out of his lungs. Peter recovered from the action in time to catch Power’s fist and twisting it out of his way. But, Powers took his other fist and pounded right into Peter’s side.

Peter winced sharply, his grip loosening that Powers freed himself and brought his fist back to Peter’s face. Peter narrowly missed the fist, turning his head away to avoid impact. Powers grunted at the sound of his knuckles hitting the mat. With his other hand, he snatched Peter’s neck to choke and hold him still.

“That’s enough!” barked Mr. Reynolds and Powers, hesitated in whether to ignore the command or not. “Let him go.”

Peter felt his throat release and he hacked up a choked cough. Mr. Reynolds strode forward, yanking Peter right to his feet. “That was pathetic to watch.”

Pathetic it may be, but Peter found it excruciating. Already he sensed a bruise forming around his ribcage.

“Focus this time,” Mr. Reynolds ordered, backing up to restart the match. “Go… again.”

Peter was ready for Powers this time. As expected, Powers threw the first punch. Peter caught it and shoved it hard to the left, throwing Powers off balance. With that momentum, Peter kicked his behind the knees to bring him down. Only Powers used his low position to elbow Peter right into the abdomen. The blow keeled Peter over, giving Powers another advantage to snap his head back right into Peter’s forehead. He felt a lump growing on the middle of his forehead.

Peter retreated a bit, trying to regain his composure. Powers left back to his feet, still bearing that awful grin of his as he paced in eager anticipation. He devoured the thrill of a fight whereas Peter dreaded it all.

“This isn’t a staring contest, gentlemen!” Mr. Reynolds impatiently called. “Get moving!”

Powers charged and Peter acrobated over him. Powers’ nostrils fumed at the lack of contact, drawing his anger right to Peter. “Is the little boy afraid?” Powers mimicked a disgusting baby-voice. “Need your mommy?”

Peter kept moving, circling away from Powers. If he wasted enough time keeping Powers away from him, then their turn would be over. At least, Peter hoped it would be over.

Powers faked a move, causing Peter to over back-flip away. It made Powers go into a rage of giggles. “Did the baby shit in his pants?” he heckled toward Peter. “Need a nappy? Diaper change? Where’s your babysitter? Should we get him over here?”

“Enough chit-chatting, Powers,” Mr. Reynolds warned. “This is hand-to-hand combat training. Not insult spewing.”

“Fair enough, Reynolds,” Powers said. “I’ll stop talking and start punching once Petey here fights like a man.”

Peter kept his distance, happy to stay where he was. Mr. Reynolds glanced over at him with a heavy sigh. “Peter—get back to it,” he commanded. “You can’t keep avoiding the fight. Don’t be a coward!”

Peter flickered a look from Powers to Mr. Reynolds and the others. “I’m not avoiding, sir,” he said as he kept watch on Powers’ movements. “I’m winning it.”

Powers stopped, gaped at Peter before he tipped his head back and ripped out a roar of laughter. Mr. Reynolds scowled at the obnoxious reactions before he stomped over to where Peter stood. “You get out there, soldier and you fight!” he berated. “Avoidance doesn’t stop your enemy.”

“I’m not avoiding!” Peter said, although, he was, in a certain way. “You don’t fight fire with fire and expect it to go away. I’m fighting violence with non-violence.” Peter snuck a look back to where Powers kept slapping his knee in grand humor. “Besides, only the incompetent resort to violence.”

That silenced Powers quick enough. The man’s eyes glowed in red-hot anger. His hands curled to fists and he growled. “What did you say?”

Peter opened his mouth to rebuttal, but Mr. Reynolds took the moment to shove Peter back into the fray. Peter stumbled back onto the shared mat and Powers made his move. He dove right for Peter, punching him hard right underneath the ribcage that Peter choked and keeled right into Powers. He wiggled to roll off Powers shoulders and circle around him, but Powers snatched his shirt collar and pulled him back, exposing his face to a burst of light.

He only got the chance to blink before a fist pummeled right into Peter’s face, knocking the lights out.

* * *

“The swelling should go down by morning,” Nellie said as she handed him an ice pack for his bruised face.

Peter woke to Simon carrying him to the medical bay. Apparently, Powers didn’t enjoy taking insults as much as he loved throwing them out. Powers managed to punch Peter three times before Luke Cage and Simon jumped him to stop the abuse. Peter was already out after the first punch and fell to the matt in a jumble of limbs.

Nellie checked him out, reporting that his cheek was busted, along with his lip and eye on his left side face. A bruise formed above his eyebrow, sinking into the eye socket itself as it turned from purple to black in multiple shades. Lip was busted and splintered, blood crusted over his parched lips. Nellie also applies a few wound coverage band-airs on small cuts to his cheek and eyebrow. Minor wounds, but treated nonetheless.

“Keep that icepack over your eye, but don’t add pressure to it,” Nellie warned. “Hold it there for at least ten minutes.”

“Okay.”

Nellie paused, leaning down to catch his eyes. “You got hit pretty hard,” she said. “Best you take it easy. Let me know if you experience blood in the eyes or nose, or if you have any vision problems. Okay? I’ll be back later to switch you with another pack.”

Nellie got up and left the room, leaving Peter on the chair with an icepack to his busted face. He wondered if Powers would get in trouble for his actions. Doubtful, but Peter hoped. After all, Powers performed exactly as what Mr. Reynolds wanted. A real hand-to-hand combat with a winner and a loser.

Peter happened to be the loser. Whatever. If Peter really wanted to fight him, Powers would be floored with Peter standing over him in victory.

A knock disrupted Peter’s thoughts. “You can come in.”

He thought it was Simon. Nellie asked Simon to wait outside as she revered the doctor-patient confidentiality. Simon obliged and stayed outside the room. Peter figured it was Simon returning to fulfill his duties to keep an eye on him.

But it wasn’t Simon.

It was a woman. Slender and athletic built with short, vibrant red hair and inquisitive green eyes that narrowed right at him upon entering. She walked with confidence, closing and locking the door right behind her. She looked familiar.

Peter lowered the icepack to get a better look.

The woman low-whistled. “That’s one hell of a shiner,” she commented, strolling up and stealing Nellie’s old chair. She took a seat, arms crossed. “Concussion too?”

Peter stiffly nodded. “Sorry, but… do I know you?”

The woman’s lips peeled into a soft smile. “My name’s Natasha Romanoff,” she introduced. “Most people know me as the Black Widow though.”

Peter’s heart surged and the icepack slipped right off his palm. “You’re… you’re Black Widow?”

She nodded. “Heard you got sent to the doctor’s again,” she remarked. “Something about getting the shit kicked out of you.”

Peter embarrassingly remembered his black eye and took the icepack back to his face to hide it. “It’s nothing.”

The Black Widow reached her hand up, hoovering it near his face that Peter flinched away.

She noticed. “May I?”

Unsure what to say or do, Peter let her fingers take the icepack from him, revealing his bruised and battered face to her. Peter said nothing as Black Widow took in the broken sight with a hardened, but unreadable expression. It seemed like minutes passed before the icepack was returned to his face.

“Someone wanted to beat you to a pulp,” she observed. “Got a name?”

Peter rolled his lips in. Not that he wanted to protect Powers, but it felt more like a test. He opted to say nothing and wait for Black Widow to come to her own conclusion. After all, it was basically public knowledge who beat the crap out of him. One only needed to ask Simon or Mr. Reynolds for the name. Or look at the video recordings from the training room.

Black Widow pressed her mouth a little thinner. “How often does this Powers fellow beat on you?”

So, she already knew. Of course she did. The world’s most dangerous spy would know who beat up a fifteen year old at the Avengers headquarters.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “Nothing I can’t heal from.”

A sadness dimmed the light in Black Widow’s gaze. “You shouldn’t have to heal.”

True, but unless they let him go, it was all he could do. “It’s all fine.”

Black Widow didn’t accept that response. “I’ve been watching you,” she admitted, causing Peter’s eyes to widen. He never noticed her around. Ever. “Ever since you’ve arrived here and I noticed a lot of changes. For instances—you don’t engage with anyone. Not even Fitz-Simmons and even  _they_ noticed.

“Then there’s your rebellious spirit, which seems to have been zapped out of you,” Black Widow observed. “What happened to the boy who was willing to jump out a window without anything to catch himself with?”

He was beaten, Peter measly thought. Beaten and dragged all the way back to his prison cell. Trapped and secured away from all he knew and loved. No amount of begging, pleading or bargaining did anything to get them to acquiesce to his requests of either talking to Mr. Stark or getting in contact with his aunt. He was surrounded by adults, who were instructed to care and help him, but they didn’t care about him. They didn’t listen to him. Or even acknowledge him. All they wanted from him was to be a good solider and not embarrass them in front of Mr. Stark. He didn’t matter. He was one of many, and that made it even worse.

He wished they threw him in the hole. Better to be lonely and sad alone, than with others.

Black Widow let out a sad sigh before rolling her chair closer to him. “I’m sorry,” she said and Peter looked back to her, catching her distress. “You should never have been brought here.”

She sounded sincere. Her remorse genuine. Peter became confused. Wasn’t she working with Mr. Stark? Didn’t she joined him on this crusade? It was odd. And more odd that she came to visit him. What did she want? Was it all another ploy?

The courteous side of him wanted to accept the apology and move on from it. What’s done was done, but the other side wanted to scream and lay blame at her feet. It was her fault as much as Mr. Stark’s and Deadpool’s and Vision’s that he was stuck in this little room, far from home and isolated to loneliness. Her apology was empty because being sorry didn’t change his situation. Her pity only agitated him.

“You have the right to be angry,” Black Widow spoke up, looking straight at him. “I would be if I were you. Hell—I wouldn’t stand for it at all. Fight my way out if I had to.”

He already tried. Twice. Didn’t work.

“I was rooting for you when you escaped over the fence,” Black Widow murmured loud enough for Peter’s sensitive hearing to pick up. “I didn’t want you to come back.”

That… was not what he expected to hear from her. It made him all the more confused as to why she sat in the same room as him. What was she trying to say to him? “What do you want, Ms. Black Widow?”

Black Widow arched his brows in surprise at the title. “It’s Nat,” she corrected him, “and I don’t want anything. Not even your forgiveness.”

“You want something though,” Peter perceived. “Otherwise, why are you telling me all this?”

Black Widow—Nat—shrugged and leaned back against her chair. “Guess I wanted you to know.”

That wasn’t a good enough response. “Why?”

“I worry about you.”

Peter snorted and pulled the icepack away from his face, revealing the abuse. “Noted.”

Black Widow sucked in a breath at the sight of his injury, before she pressed her mouth close in acceptance of what was already known between them. Her concerns for him and lack of action did little and he could not offer her the clear conscious she sought.

She wore an apologetic expression, her mouth a stressed line. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it’s not enough and you deserve far more than a simple apology.”

He deserved his home. His family. His friends.

Peter put the icepack back over his face. “I get it,” he muttered, mutely. “You can’t do anything against Mr. Stark.”

He saw a quizzical light flash passed Black Widow’s eyes. “That’s a little insulting,” she said. “I didn’t get my name Black Widow for being docile.”

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” Peter said, truthfully. “I only mean that you would be punished if you did. No need for you to get in trouble on my behalf. I can do that myself.”

Black Widow smirked. “There’s the spunk again,” she quipped. “And as for Stark—I’m not afraid of him. Nor should you be.”

“He controls my life. Everything I do is monitored by everyone,” Peter reminded her. “I can’t do anything without someone else’s approval or disapproval.”

He saw a flicker of confusion flutter through her eyes. “It’s your life, Peter,” she said. “You decide how you want to live it.”

“Easy to say when you aren’t hooked up to a microchip that can send you unconscious in a single second,” Peter retorted. “Or being followed constantly, wherever you go.

“And there’s the fact I don’t know about my family,” Peter said as his throat constricted. He thought of his aunt and remembering Mr. Stark telling him they would take care of it. Take care of her. “Are they safe? Are they captured? Are they hurt? No one will tell me anything.”

Peter slumped, depleted of all hopes and dreams. “I’m stuck here,” he muttered. “I’ll never be free again.”

There was a swell of sadness puddling in Black Widow’s eyes. No tears, but they shined. “Peter—about your aunt.”

Peter snapped to attention, heart drumming excessively in his chest. Each beat brought a dose of hope back into him as he nearly climbed off his bed to get to Black Widow.

“What about her? Is she okay? She’s not hurt, right? Is she—”

He was cut off when the door reopened and Nellie returned with a new icepack and a heat compressor.

Nellie was shocked to see Black Widow in the room. “Oh! Ms. Romanoff!” she squeaked. “I-I didn’t know you were here. Does, um, Mr. Stark—”

“Nope,” Black Widow responded, all traces of emotion vanished and replaced with a blank canvas. “I only came to check on my fellow spider. See if he was doing all right.”

She rose up from her seat, standing a height with Nellie. The nurse somewhat coward away from Black Widow. Her reputation drove fear into many. Nellie gulped as she tried to bring up Peter’s health on her tablet.

“Mr. Parker is doing well, Ms. Romanoff,” she said, her voice still squeaking that it hurt Peter’s ears. “I can print out his—”

“That’s not necessary,” Black Widow assured her. “We chatted. It’s fine.” She turned back to Peter, a faint look of repentance crossed the shadows of her face. “Peter?”

Peter looked back to her, hope floating within him. _Please don’t leave. Not without telling me about Aunt May._

She looked over at him, seeing his desperation to know. All she offered was an empty hope. “Hang in there, kid,” she said. “None of this is forever.”

And Black Widow left and all of the tension in Nellie wiped her out onto a chair. “Dear god!” she heaved. “She’s scary, isn’t she?”

* * *

It was a few days since his weird meeting with Black Widow. Peter hadn’t seen her since, despite his effort to find her. He kept an eye out wherever he went, especially now that he knows she’s been watching him. Yet, he never found her anywhere. There was no word about her either through the grapevine. She simply disappeared since that encounter and Peter contemplated if it was his fault she went missing.

Or perhaps, she purposefully stayed away. She looked uncomfortable in discussing Peter’s aunt with him. Maybe she thought it was best to stay away from him and avoid the topic of conversation. After all, he doubt he was supposed to be made aware of his aunt’s whereabouts and state of mind.

Nevertheless, Peter kept his eyes and ears opened. He hoped to find her and learn what she knew about his aunt.

Late one evening, Peter woke to his spidey-sense tingling the back of his head. He sat up in his bed, rubbing his eyes as the tingling turned to full vibration. Scuffling could be heard outside his room along with muffled sounds of different voices that he could not pinpoint. Commotion after commotion could be heard beyond the door.

His senses triggered into hyper-alert. Something was happening.

Muffled sounds cleared into words he recognized. The Compound was on a lock-down, systems on red alert and the residence center was closed off and secured. More footsteps were heard in the hallway and Peter tiptoed to his door to listen.

“Sectors 20-26 are on high alert,” announced a gruff individual. “Weapons set?”

“Kill orders?” questioned another person.

Peter sucked in a cold breath. Kill? It was serious! Someone must have infiltrated the Compound.

“Only if necessary,” answered the first person. “Otherwise, resort to disarm and restrain.”

Another clap of boots walked in the direction of Peter’s room, stopping just short from his door. “Asset contained?”

“Inside, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

There a long pause before Peter heard the dialing of a code. Suddenly, the locks on Peter’s door sprung free. He jumped back in time as the door opened to reveal a burly man in uniform. The gigantic man filled the doorway, almost the same size as Simon. Peter scuttled back and tripped on his bedpost as the man glared down at him.

“What are you doing out of bed?” accused the uniformed man.

Peter swallowed thickly. “I-I heard noises,” he stammered his excuse. “Is everything okay? What’s going on—”

“Nothing concerning you,” he grunted his response, nose upturned as he backed out of the room. “Go to bed.”

The man slammed the door shut and the locks reignited, sealing him back into his miniature cell. Footsteps didn’t disappear and Peter realized they were standing guard at his door. With nothing else to do, he settled on the bed, but didn’t fall asleep. He watched the door and listened to the brief conversation of the men outside his door.

Based on their conversation, the hunted individual got away and Peter was undeniably jealous of their success. Whoever got out, he wished they took him with them. He wondered who it could be, listing off possible candidates in his head.

The patrol outside his room mentioned asset. Something about an asset being contained before one of them opened the door to his room. Did that mean he was the asset? How was he an asset? His recent black-eye demonstrated his lack of skills. He was basically a worthless soldier.

Yet, they were worried. Who escaped that got them rushing to his door in the middle of the night, worried he would be gone too?

It prickled Peter’s brain, deeply troubling him. Something wasn’t right, but Peter couldn’t put his finger as to what it was. He toss and turned throughout the night, mind racing with so many questions and no answers. It also didn’t help that the men stayed outside his door for the rest of the night as well.

When morning came and Peter no longer needed to stay in bed, the men were gone and only Simon awaited him.

“What happened last night?” Peter asked of Simon.

Simon rolled his eyes and took Peter’s arm to drag him to the locker room. “Nothing. Get dressed,” he ordered. “Busy day.”


	10. Smile and Bear It

“Move! Move! Move!”

Peter jumped down the fire escape and hopped over to the next building. Below, people rushed down the street, away from a dangerous building that emitted some kind of smoke. Yet, no orange flames spiked out of the windows or crawled up the sides of the building.

“Parker! Are you done staring?” barked Luke’s voice in Peter’s comm. “Get those civilians out of the blast zone!”

Peter huffed as he let gravity take him down to street-level. He gestured to the people to keep running, ushering them all to get far away from the building. It was a pointless task. The people already screamed and sprinted down the street without his guidance. Luke tasked him with evacuation and securing the perimeter.

In other words, Luke sidelined him.

Despite being one of the strongest in the Compound, Peter never got anywhere near close to the action. Luke was hesitant to allow him to participate in the dangerous aspects of the mission. He was a child and in Luke’s mind, a liability more so than an asset to the team’s efforts. For a clear conscious and no distraction, Luke charged him guiding civilians out of the danger zone and keeping civilians away.

He could do more than direct foot traffic. Peter tried to persuade Luke to let him help, but Luke refused. “Do your job,” Luke ordered. “Being a part of the action is not the only heroic thing to do. Your job is important as much as the rest of the team’s.”

So, he stood by a building, idling as he allowed civilians to run past him in full fright. He heard Luke, Jack, Powers, Silk Fever and Lady Deathstrike communicate with each other as they cleared out buildings and rescued people from trapped positions. They all got to play heroes and Peter got to play safety duty.

Peter stared at the building again. Mr. Reynolds already explained the mission. A terrorist strapped an alien bomb in a building. They only have fifteen minutes before it explodes and wipes out a ten block radius. The mission is to save as many civilians as possible before the explosion goes off.

Luke, their mission leader, strategized their plan. They wanted to beat the record. Then again, all teams tried to one-up each other. So far, Shadow Company held the record with only hundred and fifty causalities.

“Why don’t we stop the bomb?” Peter questioned during their first briefing. “Wouldn’t that save everyone?”

That earned him a round of mocked chuckles and eye-rolling. And one sympathy pat from Jack. Stopping the bomb was impossible. With its alien technology, defusing the bomb was impossible. His suggestion was dismissed as childish and was forgotten.

Except, Peter didn’t forget. He stared at the building, mind buzzing with possibilities on how to defuse it. If they let him get a look at it…

There was a flash of light. Peter blinked and the building was gone. The smoke too. People disappeared as well. Only Peter and his teammates remained in the Danger Room. The fluorescent lights glared overhead right as Mr. Reynolds voice boomed in the vast room.

“Hundred and seventy-six causalities,” he reported. “Luke—excellent work on mapping out the buildings for the quickest route. Ladies? Good teamwork at clearing out that government building. Powers? Need to stop antagonizing the civilians. It’s not encouraging them to trust you. And, Jack? Impressive on that rescue with the group of kids.”

Then, Mr. Reynolds’ voice directed to him. “Mr. Parker—you need to stay focus on the task at hand,” he said. “You were assigned to direct civilians away from the site. Please explain why you had difficulty in following that task?”

All eyes turned to Peter and he felt small underneath their hard gaze. “Um… I just thought—”

“I see,” Mr. Reynolds’ voice called overhead. “You thought you were above orders? I realize you think your high power level gives you leeway to do whatever you wish, but that is not the case. You need to learn to follow orders. If Luke or someone else orders you to do something, do it. Don’t question it.”

“But—”

“Parker…”

“I think I could—”

Something whacked him in the back of the head. His words tumbled out in a mess, but he fell silent.

Mr. Reynolds spoke again. “That was not necessary Powers,” he said. “Nonetheless, Parker, you need to learn to think like a team. That’ll be all for today. Our next simulation test is next week. I want us to beat the record in time for our monthly report!”

Mr. Reynolds turned off and everyone headed to the exit.

“Hey Itsy-Bitsy!” Powers shouted. “Next time, why don’t you do everyone a favor and sit on a fucking waterspout. Do us more good than trying to keep you in line, am I right Jackie boy?”

Jack side-glared at Powers. “Fuck off, Powers,” he grumbled. “He’s a kid. Stop harassing him.”

Powers moved onto Lady Deathstrike to join in on his daily Peter whumping. A favorite activity for him that he tried to get others to participate in. Peter was the last to leave and Simon was there by the door, disgruntling waiting on him.

“You have meeting with therapist in twenty-minutes,” Simon reminded him as Peter undressed out of his simulation gear. “Hurry up. Get showered.”

“I know,” Peter said, annoyed by his constant nagging. He knew therapy was after training. He knew after therapy was dinner. And he knew after dinner was small time of recreation, which meant he and Simon went to the library. Where he always goes unless he decided to go to his room and stay there. “I’m going.”

“Go faster.”

Peter quickly rinsed off and dressed back into his uniformed clothes. He went off to therapy. Dr. Samson talked to him about needing to learn to ground himself. Or something. He hardly paid attention to her. Mostly tuned her out and nodded along when he thought it was appropriate. His thoughts were mostly occupied with the alien bomb.

He wished Luke let him get a closer look. Get an idea of the bomb because maybe he could create a way to defuse it without setting it off to explode. Then, it wouldn’t be a race about saving as many as possible. They would save everyone.

Once therapy was over and he ate his entire dinner, Peter nearly sprinted off to the library for the next hour, hoping the vast collection of books may help him solve the problem at hand.

Simon groaned upon entering the quiet library. “What about watching a film?” he suggested. “Or something more fun than sitting in the library reading books”

Peter ignored his complaints and went row by row, snatching off books from shelves before carrying them to an empty table to read. Not that the library was crowded. He usually ended up being the only visitor. Him and Simon.

Simon grumbled at being locked in the library again, moving about to study the titles on the books’ spines while Peter settled in for deep research. Something here may give him a clue or spark an idea on how to beat the unbeatable bomb. The Avengers have done miraculous saves otherwise thought impossible, why couldn’t he do it as well?

Peter flipped through the pages thoroughly divulged into the words and diagrams that he hadn’t even noticed Simon abandoned him. He didn’t even notice someone hoovering merely a foot away from him.

“What are you reading?”

Peter jumped in his seat, almost toppling right off before gripping the sides to keep him balanced. He whipped his head up to find the alien-looking android peering down at him with an inquisitive interest.

Peter took a breath of recovery. “Um… a book.”

“I can see that,” Vision replied as he drew up a chair to sit at the end of the table. He picked up one of the discarded books, reading the cover. “You have an interest in physics, I see.”

Peter’s muscles tightened as Vision picked up another book.

Vision read the next title. “Quantum physics… are you studying bomb-making?”

Peter’s fingernails scratched into his chair. “Um… no.”

“It’s just a bit of light reading before bed, then?” Vision questioned and Peter worried the android got the wrong idea. There was no need to go running off to Mr. Reynolds. Peter didn’t want to be zapped into oblivion like last week. He hated waking up to feelings of delusion and lost.

“It’s for homework,” Peter lied, hoping it would cover his tracks. “Mr. Fitz is teaching me quantum physics and I want a better understanding of it.”

Vision’s face scrunched in contemplation. “Isn’t that the point of school though?” he wondered aloud. “You learn all of this from a teacher. Not on your own.”

“It’s a team effort.”

Peter continued reading, reviewing the Bohr atom model. He checked the equation to compute if the model upheld the theory with Chitauri power cell. He’s read of incidents since the Battle of New York where the alien technology have been used for hybrid weapons, and he was certain the simulated bomb was created with Chitauri technology.

If the diagram and equation proved correct, Peter may be able to find a way to deactivate it. He scribbled his equations and formulas on a scrap piece of paper, trying to find the right way to stabilize the power source without it exploding. So far, he concluded radiation increased the power resulting in combustion.

He sighed, chin in his palm as he deliberated over the problem.

“Do you need your teacher?”

Peter forgotten Vision sat at the table with him. “No! I—I don’t need help.”

“Are you sure?” he questioned, peering over at his notes. “You seem to be stuck on finding a way to prevent the splitting of the nuclei in this… Chitauri energy core? Why are you interested in Chitauri power?”

Peter yanked his notes away from Vision and stacked his collected books into a tower to block Vision’s prying eyes. “It’s for school and it’s not a big deal,” he said, looking around for Simon. “Where’s Simon?”

“He asked for a break,” Vision answered. “Something about dying from boredom.”

Typical Simon, Peter thought. He always complained about sitting in the library, but Peter never asked him to join. He would rather no one followed or hoovered over him. Although, he preferred Simon rather than Vision. Simon never interrupted his studies.

“And you volunteered?”

“I enjoyed our last meeting,” Vision said with a soft smile.

He didn’t. Peter remembered how he almost got away when he jumped through the window only for Vision to catch him and throw him back to captivity.

Peter turned away and leaned over his book, choosing to ignore Vision. Yet, the android’s presence unnerved him. He sensed the artificial eyes watching him like a hawk, waiting for some flaw or weakness to flare up.

“Please stop staring at me like that,” Peter exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” Vision apologized and went quiet for a few seconds. “May I make an observation?”

Peter let out a breath of annoyance, but silently shrugged. He wondered what observation Vision could make that he wasn’t already aware about after being in captivity for… Peter didn’t know how long he been at the Compound. He stopped counting a long time ago.

Vision pulled up to the table. “You spend most of your free time in the library, studying or working on assignments,” he began, “but I never see you doing anything fun. Things children are often seen doing.”

“Like what?”

“I suppose watching films, playing games or play in the pool,” Vision listed off. “You know the Compound has a built-in cinema complex, and a large lap pool for use. I believe there’s a super-bot film you may enjoy.”

“Are you talking about  _Transformers_?”

Vision thought. “I believe so,” he said. “Are you interested?”

“No.”

His direct refusal surprised Vision. “Really? Based off our last talk, you seemed fascinated with robotics and AIs.”

“I am,” Peter agreed with his assessment. “But, it’s not fun going to a film alone.”

“I’ll be happy to go with you to the film,” Vision offered. “It will be interesting to see what passes as scientifically entertainment.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed on the android. He didn’t believe him. “Thanks for the offer, but it’s not the same as going with a friend. No offense,” he said, turning back to his books. “I’ll stick with my books.”

“There’s a bowling lane,” Vision added to entice him, not giving up in his pursuit of… something. What was Vision after anyway? “I have never bowled. I was supposed to go with another, but those plans were put on hold indefinitely. I would enjoy the company. Learn how to properly throw a ball down a wooden lane.”

Peter wrangled a brow at the android. Still doubtful on his motivation to get him out of the library. “Thanks, but with my strength, it’s not safe for me to throw any heavy objects around,” he said. “Um… if you don’t mind, I only have another fifteen minutes before bedtime (which is ridiculous that I have a bedtime).”

Vision looked around the room for the clock. “I can extend it for another hour, if you like?” he proffered. “There’s a lounge a few floors up that is stocked with—never mind. You cannot drink alcohol. It would hinder your development.” He became stumped, pondering a few seconds. “There is a game room available. Video games, foosball, darts—”

“Thanks,” Peter stopped Vision from listing off everything. “I’m not interested in any of that. I’m fine right here.”

Vision stared, its grey eyes burrowing deep into Peter. There was something uncomfortable the way Vision observed him, like he saw through Peter and was dissecting his brain into pieces. As if fishing for something in his mind like he was a mysterious enigma no one could solve.

Peter slouched into a smaller position in his seat. “Stop staring at me like that.”

The android blinked. “Sorry—I’m told my eyes can be a bit unsettling,” he apologized, moving his gaze back to the books. “You are a peculiar child. Not many children spend their free time studying physics.”

Peter frowned, thinking of all the other things he preferred to do. Staying up to watch a marathon of  _Doctor Who_  episodes with Ned or forcing himself to enjoy the dinner his aunt worked hard to make. He rather be at decathlon, sitting next to Michelle Jones and listening to her calling him weird or a loser. Hell, he would even preferred to be trapped with Flash Thompson in a small space.

Anything, but here.

“I like science,” Peter opted to answer. “I find it interesting.”

Another soft smile spread across the android’s face, accepting the boy’s answer. “Then perhaps I may be of help in your extracurricular activities?”

He took Peter’s notes. Peter tried to snatch it out of the android’s hand, but Vision kept it out of the boy’s grasp. He hummed as he read it over. “Have you considered using tantalum carbide combined with hafnium carbide as a possible counter container for the power source?”

“Um… well, that’s not exactly available to the general public,” Peter said. “I was leaning more towards an alloy that could contain a combustion. Like… steel. Or nichrome even.”

“Against Chitauri energy?” Vision shook his head. “You’ll need something stronger, I’m afraid.”

Peter raked his fingers through his hair. “Unless I get titanium and magnox together,” he said, snatching the notes out of Vision’s hand. “It may be enough to contain an explosion.”

“Best to still use vibranium or tantalum/hanium carbide combination,” Vision advised. “Chitarui energy may still blast through.”

“Noted,” Peter said, chewing the tip of the pencil as he studied his notes. “Unless… if I can’t get ahold of titanium, maybe I can get duraliumin. That may work. Wrap it around the core to prevent—”

“Out of curiosity,” Vision spoke up. “Why are you trying to find materials used to contain a Chitauri energy?”

“School project,” Peter flatly answered and looked up at the clock on the wall. Twenty minutes have passed and he better hit the bed before he got in trouble.

He packed up the books. “I have to get to my room or Mr. Reynolds will make me do additional two hundred push-ups,” he said, getting up from his seat. “But, um, thanks.”

For what, Peter wasn’t sure. His aunt and uncle raised him to be polite, so he gave thanks. It may have been empty gratitude, but Peter still offered it as a polite gesture to the android.

Vision floated up from his seat. “It was a pleasure,” he said, his words heartfelt. The fond smile on his mouth showed he was truly happy to be around Peter. For some odd reason. “I’ll be happy to assist you in any of your future projects. Or if you want to see a movie or something else, I can accompany you.”

Peter stopped, puzzled by the offer. “Why?”

The android stalled in his movement, forehead crinkled in bafflement. “I notice you are often alone,” he said. “Thought you may need some company. Someone to be a friend.”

Peter’s brows furrowed at the random extension of friendship. “I’m fine,” he said. “I prefer to be alone anyway.”

"Do you?" Vision questioned with doubt. "Because since you arrived, I have yet to see you smile."

Peter flashed him fake smile. "There. Smiling."

He strode off, sliding the books away and saying good-night to the librarian. Vision was still by the door, assigned to escort him back to his room. Probably because Simon didn’t return from wherever he ran off to. Not that Peter blamed him. He wanted to run off too.

Neither of them said a word, but Peter knew the android snuck glances down at him. Not that Vision was terrifying or threatening, but it unnerved how many people  _watched_ him without his knowledge. Especially when he didn’t feel safe. And he hadn’t felt safe since his first arrival.

Peter stared straight ahead, tuning out the small talk Vision attempted to start with him and desensitizing everything. He felt nothing. He saw nothing. He was nothing.

When he got to his door, Peter hurried to get inside and away from Vision. He didn’t even realized he held his breath most of the way to the room. He quickly coded the door and it opened.

“Good-night,” Peter said, wanting to escape, but Vision stopped him.

“Peter.”

Peter turned to the android, silently begging to be released. He didn’t want to talk anymore. He didn’t trust Vision. He didn’t trust anyone in the building. They were all against him, despite their insistence they were all there to help him.

Vision’s face softened upon seeing Peter’s face. “You do not need to be alone,” he said. “I know you believe that we are the bad guys, but I can assure you, we are not.”

While Vision’s words were meant for comfort, it only sent chills down Peter’s spine. “Maybe you once were.”

He closed the door, sealing himself shut in his room. Better to be alone than with dishonest people.

He hurried to his bed, not even bothering to get ready before he slipped underneath the blanket. Once the eyes close, he’ll wake and do everything all over again. Morning workout, breakfast, school, lunch, therapy, afternoon workout, library, evening workout, dinner and repeat. Keep head down. Do not cause problems. Do not upset anyone. Keep to himself. Do not trust anyone. Stand on your own.

No one here was his friend. No one listened or cared about him the way his aunt did. No one shared his interests or understood his moods like Ned. No one.

He once saw the Avengers as heroes. The ultimate good guys, but that was a façade. There was no such thing as good or bad. Money and power only worked in the world. And Peter had none of that. He never would.

Peter pressed his face into the pillow, wishing it swallowed him whole. Tomorrow would be another day. Same things over and over and over again. Every day. All blended together. Nothing was worthwhile. His life moved, but he was at a standstill. As Peter Parker, he had family and friends. School, peers and a life to enjoy his treasured normalcy. As Spider-man, he saved lives and kept his neighborhood safe from scoundrels and improved the lives of ordinary individuals.

Here? He was nothing. Another enhanced person. Another to bully into things. To endure punches and stress. He wasn’t Peter. He wasn’t Spider-man. He wasn’t anything. He didn’t matter.

Peter inhaled the cotton fabric of his pillow as it stifled the cries of his lullaby.

* * *

The day came upon them.

After all the additional training and increased workout sessions, they were back into the greenroom of the Danger Room. They were prepping themselves for the simulation. Luke Cage was already decked out in the required outfit and waited on them. Mr. Reynolds stood next to him, discussing the perfect way to enact their plan of attack.

Peter had an idea. It took hours in the library and talks with Fitz-Simmons (who were weirdly thrilled that he asked them a question) about quantum mechanics and sustainable materials against high-powered combustions. If he was right, they could find a way to save all the simulated civilians and not just the record number the rest strove to achieve. All he needed was a few minutes to explain it. Get them to listen to him.

“Gather around team!” Mr. Reynolds shouted and everyone huddled.

Peter tried to join the circle, but Powers elbowed him in the chest and kept him out.

“Okay—this is our last chance before the monthly reports,” Mr. Reynolds announced. “Right now, Shadow Company still has the record save. We can beat them. I know we can. I trained you all to be the best and I expect only the best.”

They all nodded in agreement. Except Peter. He only cocked an eyebrow at Mr. Reynolds. Why did the man treat it like some kind of game? He doubted that was the point of the simulation, but Peter chose not to counter Mr. Reynolds. Unless he wanted a jolt of electricity to burn into his nerves.

“Make me proud,” Mr. Reynolds said, before tapping Luke to jump in. “I’ll see you all afterwards.”

Mr. Reynolds left to the viewing window on the level above them, leaving Luke in charge of their rag-tag team.

Luke puffed out his muscled chest. “It’s the same as we discussed last time,” he said. “Remember—our main focus is to get the kids out first. That means, Jack, you need to speed up your time in evacuating that childcare, while Silk Fever and I handle the bad guys.”

Jack nodded once. “Sure, boss.”

“Powers? Stop dillydallying in the apartments,” he said. “I know you are thinking of robbing those who leave. It’s not real, so focus on the actual point of the mission and not your selfish desires.”

Powers blew a raspberry at Luke, but then shrugged appropriately after Luke’s taut glare. “Fine! I won’t slide a Rolex watch into my pocket.”

Luke rolled his eyes to the Min Li Ng, Silk Fever. “Hit the residential building first after our takedown of the bad guys,” he ordered and then instructed Lady Deathstrike to start at the top of the residential building while Silk Fever took the bottom levels.

Then, Luke looked over their heads and down at Peter. “And, Parker, stay focus on your job,” he said. “Direct people out of the blast radius. Tighten the perimeter so no one comes back in. Got it?”

Peter raised his hand. He received a few humored glances for his child-like behavior, but he ignored them and focused on Luke.

Luke sharply inhaled, but nodded his consent to Peter’s request. “What?”

“I, um, I think I may have a better way to save everyone,” Peter said, thinking back to his research he conducted over the week. “If I can get to the bomb—”

“Nope. Nope. Uh-uh,” Luke shook his head aggressively. “We talked about this, Parker. Stay away from the bomb site. There’s no point in wasting time on a bomb that will detonate. Focus on saving people’s lives. Not the bomb.”

“But, I have a plan that could—”

“Didn’t you just hear him?” Powers sneered. “Shut up and let the grown men take care of everything.”

Peter vexed at the dismissals. No one listened to a child. “It could save—”

A hand smothered against his mouth, muffling his argument. There was a painful squeeze and Peter jerked to free his face from the stronghold.

“Shut him up!” Powers gleefully announced to everyone.

Jack pulled Powers’ arm down and Peter breathed deep, chest expanding full of air once free form Powers grip.

“What do you know about bombs?” Silk Fever questioned. “What are you? Mr. Stark? Didn’t think so.”

“Yeah, so shut up,” Powers finished with that stupid, horrible grin. “You just practice your waving. Direct all the civilians north.”

Peter’s insides burned from the constant demoralizing. “If you listen to me, I can—”

“Enough Peter!” Luke interrupted him, exasperated by Peter’s mild defiance. “Stick with the plan that we know will save a lot more lives. Okay?”

“But—”

Luke instructed everyone to head to the doors. They shoved and jostled Peter aside, leaving him in their wake. Powers kicked him as he passed.

Peter went to follow, but Luke stopped him. “Look, kid, I know you want to save everyone, but that’s not possible in this world,” he said with a pacifying tone. “I appreciate your optimism, but if you want to get the job done, you have to remember two things.

“One—death is inevitable,” Luke said with a voice that asserted no debate. “People die. People live. All you can do is save as many as you can.

“Second—heroes do not exist,” Luke meant it and for that second, Peter thought he was right. “A hero is a measurement in time. A  _moment_  in a man’s life. Not the man.”

Luke’s words hit him hard. Peter suddenly felt hollow, as if Luke carved him empty. There was an awful truth to Luke’s assertion, but Peter struggled to wrap his mind around it. Heroes do exist. How could Luke believe that? How many times has the world watched Iron Man or Captain America save countries, cities and civilians from complete annihilation?

Then again, Iron Man brought Peter here. Kept him trapped and leashed against his will. Perhaps Luke did have a point.

It was obvious Luke didn’t realize that his speech impacted Peter in a horrible way. “So—in this next moment, you will save as many people as you can by directing them away from the building,” he concluded. “You’ll do far more good doing that.”

He clapped Peter’s shoulder and moved around him to join the others, leaving Peter to deal with the fallout of Luke’s words. Peter stayed in the back, mind muddled by such cold revelations and hard truths. Luke gave some sort of speech, but Peter didn’t hear.

A siren blared, warning everyone the simulation test was about to start. Peter sucked up his feelings, putting it far back in his mind as he went into position.

The doors opened and the Danger Room challenged their skills.

He fell into auto-pilot. He moved when Silk Fever sprinted out in the Danger Room. Already the scene was before Peter. The New York City landscape of adjacent buildings, speckled with high-rise skyscrapers dominated the area. Unbelievable traffic for a city nuzzled too close for comfort. Already, the morning commute of honks, tire screeches and pigeon hoots filled Peter’s ears as did Luke’s voice when communicating to the rest of the team.

“Good luck, everyone,” Luke’s voice boomed in Peter’s ear. “Remember—we can beat Shadow’s record if we pick it up.”

Peter adjusted the Bluetooth in his canal and hopped up the fire escape to get a better view of the foot traffic below. Yet, he couldn’t keep focus. His thoughts kept going back to Luke’s comment about heroes, and that no one could save everyone. The bomb was going to explode. The bomb would kill many people. If they work together and efficiently, more can be saved from the fate.

Yet, he couldn’t stop the guilt scratching his insides, shredding his heart. He knew none of the scene was real. All fake, but real enough to get Peter’s spidey-sense tingling in anticipation of a dawning threat.

Threat. Danger. Deaths.

But, all these people weren’t aware. Not yet. Soon enough, but they didn’t deserve the fear. They didn’t deserve that their lives were at the hands of criminals and well, them. Him and his teammates. What right did they decide who lives and who dies?

He looked back down at the crowd. They were picking up pace, the danger settling in. His teammates’ calls and remarks played loud in his ear. All talking over one another about getting the most out, beating the record. Why was it always about the record? People’s lives were at stake! They may not matter to them. Or to others. But someone out there cared if that one person died. Someone would be missed.

_People die. People live. All you can do is save as many as you can._

Peter didn’t want that though. He wanted to save them all. He could save them all.

An old memory floated back to him. A familiar, comforting voice strung on his heart.

“ _With great power, comes great responsibility_.”

Peter thought back to the Battle of New York, of Iron Man catching the nuclear bomb. He risked his life in that moment as he jetted to the hole in the sky to space, sending the nuclear bomb away from the citizens of New York and sparing their lives. Iron Man didn’t have to do it. The government sanctioned the bomb. Yet, Iron Man stepped in and shipped it to outer space, nearly costing his life. He believed they could save everyone and he took that chance.

Same with Captain America. A devastating bomb. No chance to defuse it and no chance to redirect the plane for a soothe landing. He had to crash it. Crash it right in the middle of the ocean to save people from a painful death, while he forever laid frozen in the tundra only to awake to where all he knew was gone and the people he loved died anyway. Still, it was never a choice for Captain America. He was always going to make the same decision. Kill himself and save everyone else.

And then there was his Uncle Ben. The man who’s kind soul never faltered a moment in his life. Not even when he was shot. Like Iron Man and Captain America, it was never a choice for him. He did the right thing. The courageous thing.

Iron Man. Captain America. Uncle Ben. They made the hard choice and showed no regret for it. They did the right thing at the right time.

Peter looked back to the building. It wasn’t smoking yet, but it would soon.

He faced the same choice his old heroes lived through. Save only a handful or save everyone?

There was no choice.

Peter abandoned his post and scaled up the fire escape and headed to the roof.  A cackle in his ear tickled his eardrum as Luke’s voice came in.

“Parker? What are you doing?” he questioned.

“Saving people,” Peter answered, looking down below, searching for the right materials he needed and spotting them below.

“That didn’t include scaling up a building,” Luke berated. “Get back down!”

Peter jumped. If he had his web-shooters, he would have swung down to the street level, but he didn’t. He hopped from fire escape to fire escape until his feet touched concrete. The second they did, he bolted. He went to a disused daycare bus, ripping off the hood of the engine. He checked inside, staring at the engine before deciding it would be useless. But the hood—Peter kept that tucked in his arm as he ran around the back and ripped out the exhaust pipe. He examined the metal and smiled. Titanium. Perfect.

He next raced to the hardware store. He moved through the hustle and bustle of civilians running away from the now smoky building.

“PETER!”

Peter winced as his eardrum thrummed at the loud screech of Luke’s blare.

“Peter,” Luke said, sounding pissed. “What are you doing? Stop it! Get back to your position!”

Peter reached for the comm in his ear. “I’m sorry. I can’t do that,” he said before yanking it out of his ear and tossing it aside.

Free, Peter went back to his task. He burst through the hardware store, searching for all the tools he needed. Blow torch, solder iron, gloves, wire cutters and lead paint. Arms filled, Peter exited the hardware store to make the last dash to the building with the bomb.

Only problem was Luke Cage stood in his way.

“Peter!” he screamed. “You are jeopardizing the mission!”

Peter looked behind Luke, at the smoky building. “I’m trying to save it!”

“No—go back! Now! Or I will drag you there!”

And Luke meant it. He was never outwardly mean to Peter, but he didn’t appreciate direct disobedience. Especially not by a kid. Not by Peter.

Peter clutched the items close to him before shaking his head. “I can’t.”

Luke’s face broke into crevices of anger. He stormed onward, marching to Peter with determination to handle the situation before it got too far out of control.

Peter couldn’t let that happen. He zipped away, feet barely even touching the ground. It was almost like he was flying. That was how fast he was going, avoiding Luke’s attempts to grab him. He ignored Luke’s roar and pleadings, sprinting to the entry of the building.

“ _Parker! Parker!_ ” Luke yelled. “Come back! It’s suicide! You’ll—”

He slammed the door open and closed, cutting off whatever Luke was shouting. The building was silent itself. An eerie omen, he supposed. Peter’s spidey-sense led him though the building.

Small flames sprouted from trashcans, which puzzled Peter. Perhaps it was to make the building appear more bleak and dangerous? Whoever designed the simulation clearly was going for a dark, creepy dystopia inside the building. Doors were busted off their hinges, paper littered the floor and almost every furnishing was tipped over. Bit of an overkill.

He tip-toed down the corridors, peeking his head into each room in search for the bomb. His spidey-sense went on high-alert that it drummed a migraine right into his skull. His nerves wired and whacked, almost like the hairs on his arms were trying to pull him away from the danger.

Peter persisted. He turned the corner into a large office space.

He came to a dead halt. Before him, in the middle of the cubicles and rolling chairs, was the bomb. It glowed, the purple hue getting brighter with every pulse. A smoky wisp emitting from the hooked wires of the machine the power sourced.

His head pulsed. Danger. Danger. Death.

Peter carefully approached the purple glowy thing. He studied it, looking at the construction of the bomb before making his decision on how to go about in containing it. It appeared he could at least open the lid, which granted him closer access to the power cell that energized the bomb. It was much smaller than he anticipated. It didn’t even look threatening. It reminded Peter of a Himalayan crystal light than a bomb. Still, he knew not to underestimate the danger everyone was in.

He got to work. He started the molding of the bus’s hood, shaping it into a dome-like structure that could cover the bomb entirely. Peter repeatedly punched, stomped and massaged the metal into the shape he wanted as the time ticked down. He didn’t know how long he had left. Probably not enough. Or maybe, hopefully, just enough.

With the solder iron, he casted it around the wires. It was hard to tighten the sheet around the wires, but Peter pressed them hard into it. Secured, he moved onto his next step. The titanium. He smashed the circular exhaust into a flat strip of metal. Almost large enough to cover the small dose of the purple glowly rock.

With delicate handling that he learned in Midtown’s workshops, he moved the former titanium exhaust pipe right over the purple rock. Peter breathed. In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady, Parker, he reminded himself.

The titanium was over the cell and Peter gently pressed the metal to surround the power source to the best of his ability. The purple hue only grew brighter. A warning.

Peter hurried and grabbed the can of chrome paint. He punched it open, the yellow goop dousing his fist. He tipped it over into the dome, spreading the chrome yellow all over it. Hopefully, it would help contain the heat within the dome.

As that dried a bit, Peter grabbed the wire cutters, investigating the wires. No color-coded wiring. Of course. All green. No way to determine which led to what. A single cut could detonate it. He needed to trace the wires to—

Peter’s spidey-sensed jerked him up.

The rock glowed brighter underneath the titanium. It lit up the whole bomb.

Oh no.

Peter tossed the wire cutters and scrambled for the dome. His senses screamed. His muscles suffered from spasms as he hurried to flip the dome over the bomb.

Hurry. Hurry. Danger. Danger.

Peter slammed the dome over the bomb and threw his whole body on top, hands sticking to the carpet floor.

Death!

A flash of white burned into Peter’s irises. He squeezed his eyes shut as he was swallowed by blinding end.

Then his senses died. And his stomach flopped on title floor.

Peter cracked an eye open. He was sprawled in the center of the Danger Room. All the visual effects were gone. The sound effects too. All there was left was Peter in the center and his teammates near the edge, circling around him.

They all wore peeved expressions. Directed at him.

Peter gulped as he slowly rose to his feet, standing awkwardly in front of his teammates. He rolled in his lips as he took in each expression. Luke looked down-right furious. Jack—disappointed with a hint of frustration. Lady Deathstrike had her arms crossed and her long claws out, tapping menacingly. Silk Fever’s black hair smoked, her skin looking redder than normal. And, Powers…

“Can I kill him now?” Powers snarled in Peter’s direction.

Before anyone answered, the door to the Danger Room burst opened. Mr. Reynolds stormed in, fuming and his muscles twitching in attempt to restrain his need to react. Eyes were slits and glowered at Peter with an intensity of a brimstone heart.

He stopped. And then, his voice boomed so loud Peter thought the floor shook. “What the _hell_ was that?”

No one got a word out, because Mr. Reynolds didn’t stop shouting. At Peter.

“ _PARKER_! You were assigned to direct civilians to safety. To keep them at a safe distance,” Mr. Reynolds bellowed, his tall presence domineering over Peter. “You jeopardized the whole mission—to what exactly?”

Peter had never seen Mr. Reynolds furious enough for the vein in his forehead to bulge. The man’s whole face constricted into severe lines of pure rage while gritting his teeth at Peter.

“I w-was—” Peter stumbled to explain.

“You disobeyed a direct order from your superior,” Mr. Reynolds ranted on and Peter almost pictured smoke billowing from the man’s hot ears. “You went against all protocols!”

“I tried to—”

“You abandoned your teammates!”

“They weren’t listening—”

“You got hundreds of civilians killed!” Mr. Reynolds thundered. His silver eye sharpened like lightning bolts as he glared. “ _Hundreds_!”

Peter’s legs were shaking and his stomach twisted in distressed. He lowered his gaze from Mr. Reynolds’ bulging red face to the floor. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Not in front of these people.

Yet, he felt his throat close up and tears wetting his irises. He didn’t want anyone to die. Real or imaginary.

Peter took a deep breath, hands wrangled together in some desperate attempt to anchor himself. “I-I was just trying to do the right thing,” he blubbered a bit. “I thought there was a way to—”

“And it didn’t work,” Mr. Reynolds snapped at him. “You got civilians killed and distracted your teammates, which led to more dying… _look at me_!”

Peter blinked slowly as he lifted his head. He saw all their faces. Their pissed-off expressions, each disquieting as the next (more so with Powers, whose glacial blue eyes almost sent ice straight through Peter’s heart).

Mr. Reynolds’s brimstone madness and his furrowed brows made Peter’s nerves bundled in a wrecked fit. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” he rampaged. “You don’t get to play the victim anymore, kid. You fucked up this whole mission!”

Peter gulped. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry won’t bring back these people’s lives,” Mr. Reynolds waved the tablet wildly above Peter’s head. “We lost—”

Mr. Reynolds swiped the screen, pulling up their results. Peter’s teammates drew closer, siding along with Mr. Reynolds and staring down at Peter for his childish defiant. How many times have they whispered he was more a liability? A burden? A child who would fuck up everything?

Mr. Reynolds squinted at the tablet, his mouth pressed thin. “No… no this cannot be right,” he muttered, tapping at the screen to refresh. “Damn… am I not getting it? This is all messed up. Must have cracked the hard drive.”

He called up to the ceiling. “FRIDAY?” Mr. Reynolds requested attention. “Report, please?”

The ceiling boomed, the sound of a feminine Irish voice filling the void above them. “Conclusion of the recent simulation test: minor structural damage due to shockwave and zero causalities,” the voice reported. “Congratulations, Mr. Reynolds. Your team set the new record.”

And the voice ceased, but Peter heard it echo in his head long after.

As everyone’s faces morphed from anger to bold shock, Peter’s mouth tugged into a relieved smile.

Everyone survived. Every single civilian in the simulation lived.

Peter wore the biggest grin of his life.


	11. A Brain to Pick, An Ear to Listen

Peter received the best news ever!

A week passed since the simulation and Peter, more or less, received little attention for his success. His team was happy to hold the record, but their attitude toward him changed little. All of them were bitter with his disobedience and treated him with the same regard as they would a fly. Luke Cage held some resentment against him, and Peter felt bad. He didn’t mean to undermine Luke’s authority, but no one listened to him. He had to do it and he hoped that his success would make them realize that. But, it didn’t change much in the team’s dynamic. Luke and Jack were still tolerable to be around, while the other were less so. Powers most of all. Peter’s success brought scorn and intense disdain from the man, and he enjoyed making Peter feel it every time they had to practice together.

The Parker luck struck again, much to his dismay.

So, it surprised Peter that early morning when Mr. Reynolds walked into his room with an announcement. Mr. Reynolds decided to relax some of the restrictions imposed upon Peter. One of them being Simon no longer had to follow him everywhere and another was being outside. He didn’t have free range like the others. Peter only had access to courtyard, but that was good enough. 

Mr. Reynolds said Peter earned it. His demonstration in the simulation and his good behavior played a part in lessening the restrictions. Peter didn't care what the reasons were. He was thrilled to be rid of Simon and have a chance to breathe fresh air. 

When Peter finally received his anointed recreation time, he bundled up in a sweater, coat and hat and nearly skipped to the courtyard. No one else joined him. Not on such a wintery day. It was cold, the frigid temperatures nipped at his nose and chilled his eyes that Peter blinked several times to keep them from freezing. The cold seeped through his coat and sweater, giving him a few shivers from the drastic change of environment. Autumn was gone for good.

Peter didn’t mind the cold. He was outside and away from everyone, no longer having to deal with Powers' sick games and pranks. He relaxed and enjoyed the fresh air with the sun tinting his pale complexion yellow.

The snow from last night remained, mostly untouched by human footprints. Peter trudged his way to the bench, brushing away the feathery bed of snow off to the ground. He sat and took another breath as he admired the tundra landscape. The forest’s canopy was white and sparkled in delight of the sun’s pale rays. The watchtowers along the fence had little snowcaps on top, almost as if they were decorated hats. A few icicles stretched from underneath the roofs, but not enough to make it a wonder.

Didn’t matter. It was a wonder for Peter to even touch the snow. Maybe he’ll build a snowman. Something to occupy his eager builder hands and, embarrassingly, something to talk to. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, but it would make him feel less foolish than talking out loud to nothing.

Peter leaned back into the bench, comforted by his solitude and freedom. No more Simon. No more being shut indoors. It wasn’t much, but it was a lot all the same.

“Peter?”

Peter flinched. Fear clutched his heart as he whipped his head to the new voice.

His eyes enlarged.

It was Mr. Stark. Iron Man. His jailor.

Peter immediately stiffened in shock, unsure what to say or do. He hadn’t seen Mr. Stark since he first arrived at the Compound. And last he heard, Mr. Stark wanted nothing to do with him.

It threw Peter off to find Mr. Stark standing about three feet away from him, dressed in a warm coat with a dark, plaid scarf snugged around his neck. He wore dark aviators, making it hard for Peter to deduce if the man's feelings on seeing him. Behind Mr. Stark was a large stranger. He too wore a heavy winter coat and a scarf with the addition of a wool hat on his head and gloves. He had his limbs pulled close to his body and his hands stuffed in his pockets. His feet rocked in hopes to keep moving, to stay warm. The man eyed Mr. Stark before darting it to Peter then to the door. The man seemed to be in a rush to return indoors. Mr. Stark was not.

“What are you doing out here?” Mr. Stark questioned, but gave Peter no time to answer. “It’s freezing! Come on!”

Mr. Stark walked on, heading to the front door while the stranger waited for Peter to get up to follow. Peter resigned to defeat. He knew it was too good to be true.

He got up from the bench and followed Mr. Stark's footsteps out of the courtyard with the strange close behind him. If he couldn’t enjoy his solitude outside, best to do it in the only place he knew Powers couldn't get to him—his room.

Peter wiped his shoes on the rug. Already, Mr. Stark walked away, no longer interested now that Peter was caged back inside the Compound. Dispirited, Peter turned to the left of the hallway, retreating to the safety of his room for a quiet nap. He didn’t get far before an arm barricaded his attempt. The stranger stopped him. He gestured to Peter to continue following Mr. Stark, who didn’t even noticed what was happening behind him.

The stranger shepherded Peter to the end of the hallway where Mr. Stark waited for one of the elevators to answer his beck and call. Peter stood between to the two men, forehead creviced as he glanced between Mr. Stark and Mr. Stranger.

Did he do something wrong? Was he not supposed to be outside? Did Mr. Reynolds lie to him? Was it some kind of cruel trick? More questions fluttered through his head at rapid speed, analyzing what he did wrong.

The elevator doors opened and Mr. Stark strode right into the center. Peter moved too, but not with such swagger as Mr. Stark. He timidly entered and moved toward the corner as if to make room for Mr. Stranger than to keep his distance from Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stranger went to join them, but Mr. Stark stopped him. “Elevator's full, Hap,” he said. “Catch the next one.”

Mr. Stranger—Hap, as Mr. Stark called him—gaped at the man, eyes drifting from Peter to all the available space. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Stark said. “Besides, I want some time with the kid. Him and me.”

“Seriously?”

“Jesus—Happy,” Mr. Stark cracked a grin, not all irritated by the man’s questioning. “I’m not going to kill him. It’s fine. See you later.”

Mr. Stark tapped something on his wrist and the elevator doors shut, sealing Peter inside the tiny moveable room. With Mr. Stark.

Peter swore his chest compressed as the elevator climbed. Up and up, Peter worried where he was going. Worried what Mr. Stark wanted from him. What? What was it? Peter thought back the past couple days. Nothing sprouted from his mind. He did everything right. Every day was the same as it was months ago. He did all of his work. He didn’t cause any trouble. He didn’t antagonize anyone. He didn’t do anything wrong.

Yet, he did. Or else Mr. Stark wouldn’t be next to him.

Peter needed to do something.  _Say something!_

“I’m sorry!” Peter blurted and instantly regretted it.

It was too late though. The deed was done. Mr. Stark craned his neck over his shoulder, arching a single eyebrow up inquisitively as he gazed down on him.

Peter fumbled with his hands, casting his eyes down to the floor to hide his embarrassment. “I… I-I mean to say sorry,” he said, voice unable to hide the tremors, “for what I did.”

“O-kay. I’m interested,” Mr. Stark said, pivoting to look at Peter directly. He took off his aviators and tucked them into his coat’s pocket. “What are you sorry for?”

The man’s eyes rested on Peter and waited for the response. Peter choked on his nerves, his lungs hyperventilating. What was the answer? What did Mr. Stark want to hear?

Peter struggled for a moment. “Um… I-I… I’m sorry for, um, being outside,” he said, praying that was right. “I know I’m not allowed out there, and I-I wasn’t planning to run. Mr. Reynolds said I could go into the courtyard and I hadn’t meant to stay there long. Or at all. I don’t have to go back out if you don’t want me too. I won’t go out again. I won’t—”

Mr. Stark put up a single hand. Peter shut his mouth.

“Going to stop you there, Spider-Boy,” Mr. Stark said, but there was no anger in his tone. Only humor. “I’m not mad at all about you being outside.”

“You aren’t?” That was certainly a surprise.

“No,” Mr. Stark assured. “You can go to the courtyard whenever you like. But, I wouldn’t stay out there too long. Not during winter. You don’t want to catch a cold.”

“Well, being outside doesn’t actually get you a cold,” Peter started, but when he saw Mr. Stark lift his brows up again, he dropped his words. “Never mind. Sorry.”

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes and chuckled right as the elevator doors opened. He stepped out, shrugging off his coat and unwrapping his scarf as he walked in. Peter trailed a little behind him, but came to a dead halt when he stepped out the elevator.

He expected a hallway. A long hallway with doors on either side and people going in and out or around, busy with work to ever take a look at his direction. Or all flustered and trying extra hard to know Mr. Stark was among them.

But, that was not what he found.

He stood in a gigantic workshop. A large, open area with modern, but reinforced walls that seemed well-suited for all types of mechanical testings. In the center of it was a circular, raised stage where holographic screens surrounded half of it. The workshop was cluttered with shelving units full of old gear, equipment and possibly nostalgia. There was also a massive platinum workbench a bit further away from stage, cluttered with tablets, papers and tools.

Peter walked into an alternate reality. Never, ever had he believed he would one day be standing in Iron Man’s workshop. A dream every nerd in his high school had!

Peter gaped as he tried to follow Tony across the room. He rotated in his walk, trying to take in everything around him.  Mr. Stark walked ahead without pause, tossing his coat and scarf to some mechanical creature that tooted when it caught the man’s coat.

“Thanks Dum-E,” Peter heard Mr. Stark say to the robot, who swiveled to hang the coat up.

Peter gawked at the robot, watching it hang-up Mr. Stark’s coat and scarf with loose care. Then, something in the corner of Peter’s eye distracted him.

He looked over and his eyes nearly exploded out of his head. “Whoa…”

The entire wall was dedicated to Iron Man armors. Each suit was incased behind glass that displayed all of Mr. Stark’s classic Iron Man armors. They were lined up, one after the other, with perfect shine but still with their scarred dents and scratches from battles Mr. Stark won or survived.

Peter turned off from the path and made a beeline to the cases, starting the Mark I armor. He got real close to the glass that his breath left a condensation mark upon it. Peter didn’t care. He drew his eyes to each armor, mesmerizing at how close he was to the original Iron Man armor! The last time he ever that close to a suit it was during the Stark Expo.

Peter stopped. He peered closer, nearly bringing his nose to the glass. It was the armor! The same armor Mr. Stark wore to stop Hammer and his killer suits. The armor loomed over him, the triangular chest piece glowed with alluring hope. Peter tipped his head back to look up into the metal mask and for a second, he thought he heard Mr. Stark’s voice calling to him through the mask, " _Nice work_ —"

“Kid?”

Or maybe Mr. Stark  _was_  calling to him. 

Peter spun. Mr. Stark was standing near the stage, looking at him before glancing up to the Iron Man behind Peter.

“I don’t wear them anymore,” Mr. Stark said to Peter. “Figured it would be okay to put them behind glass. Look up at them every now and then to see what I’ve accomplished. How far I’ve gotten and how far I still need to go.” He looked back to Peter. “Got a favorite?”

Peter nodded and pointed to the Iron Man suit behind him.

Mr. Stark spluttered a laugh. “Really?” he said, surprised. “Why?”

Peter didn’t want to tell him the truth. “Oh, um, because of the palladium powered laser system," he said. "Pretty cool to cut through any metal. Also, the repulsors are cool and it's like, the first suit to have the new element, right?"

Mr. Stark didn't say anything. He leaned hard against the stage's railing, studying Peter with a peculiar curiosity. "You  _are_  a fan," he said. "Hardly anyone notices the differences between them."

Hard to when the man is flying out of reach and being blasted upon, all the while everyone is running in a giant stampede to get away. And, Peter, stuck and lost, trying to find his family when he had to be brave. Only then did Peter ever saw an Iron Man suit up close.

Peter shrugged though and dismissed his attention to details. "Most nerds know."

“Uh-huh," Mr. Stark said in regards. "Well, as much as you would rather talk about those suits, it's not why I brought you here." He pushed himself off the railing and went to the workbench, beckoning Peter to come along too. "Over here, Underoos.”

Peter walked over to the workbench, his nerves tingling and his muscles tightening in dreadful anticipation. Mr. Stark was already fiddling with something on the workbench. His hands swiped here and there, but nothing seemed to move across the workbench. As Peter reached the workbench, he realized it was a hologram. The entire surface of the workbench was a computer screen with holographic images everywhere. Mr. Stark continued to swipe things aside until he tapped on a folder that contained a video recording.

He pulled it up and Peter recognized it as the simulation challenge he and his teammates completed a few days ago. 

"I heard about your team's simulation test," Mr. Stark said, making the screen wider for Peter to easily spot his thin-framed body. 

Peter's heart dropped right out of him and burrowed underneath where he stood. That was why Mr. Stark brought him here. Because of his disobedience and recklessness during the faux mission—everything that irked his teammates. That was what he was in trouble for. He should have known!

Mr. Stark pressed play and, together, they watched Peter disregard orders, sprinting straight toward the bomb as juggled an armful of junk. He heard Luke yelling and Jack yelling at him to come back, Silk Fever cursing up a storm and Powers planning to kill him after all of it. Peter was thankful he removed the earpiece when he did. He didn’t need to hear Powers’ plans while he worked on the bomb. But, he remembered Luke’s angry voice, shouting at him to go back to the original plan. He remembered ignoring him too. 

Peter couldn't watch the screen anymore. He turned his head down to stare at his shoes while the scene played out until its death. 

Mr. Stark didn't press the replay button. "Impressive," he said. "Bold even, considering you broke chain of command."

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

"For going against protocol and disobeying," Peter promptly responded. So  _this_  was the reason he was in trouble with Mr. Stark. "I know I was to follow Mr. Cage's directions, but I saw a chance and I had to take it—”

“Even at the cost of everyone's lives?”

Peter swallowed a hard lump down his constricted throat. "Well, erm... I thought..."

Mr. Stark swiveled a chair around and plopped into it. "Did you even know if it was going to work?"

“Well, um, no...”

“Then why did you do it?" Mr. Stark grilled, but more out of curiosity than upset. "What made you throw everything out the window and charge right to the bomb with no certainties?”

Peter's knees shook where he stood. His eyes flickered downward again and he tried to keep his breathing steady. Do not panic. Do not breakdown. 

“I-I, erm... I—”

“Gotta speak up, kid.”

Peter let out a long, uncertain breath. "The plan was to save as many people as we can before the bomb went off," he started as Mr. Stark leaned forward into his seat. Probably to listen closely as Peter's voice was hardly above a whisper. "Mr. Cage came up with a good strategy to save most of the people. But, that's all anyone does. They all want to save the  _most_  people in the quickest way possible."

“And you don't want to?”

Peter raised his gaze to Mr. Stark. "I want to save everyone."

Mr. Stark's expression hardly changed. There was a mercurial shift in the man's expression. Something akin to thoughtful, but Peter couldn't be certain that was correct. 

Mr. Stark tapped his fingers against the workbench’s surface. "You're right, you know," he said to which surprised Peter as he didn't expect that response. "They all give up before the stimulation starts. They don't think about defeating the problem. They see a threat and already, they let it win. Sure, less lives are taken, but other lives were. But, again, they did the most good they could do."

Mr. Stark pointed to him. "But you—you came in with the idea of ending the threat entirely. To not let it win at all," he said. "You thought like an Avenger. Sure—you went against orders, but so do I. All the damn time apparently. And you want to know what, kid? I'm always in the right. Like you were here."

Peter glanced back to the screen, seeing his sweaty self standing in judgment before his teammates and Mr. Reynolds. "What if I was wrong?" he asked. "I could have gotten everyone killed."

“You could have," Mr. Stark agreed. "But, that's why you have a team. So everyone can work together and if the first plan doesn't work, then the second one will.”

“Is that what you and the rest Avengers did?”

Mr. Stark shrugged. "More or less,” he quietly answered. “Usually, our plans were made as we go along.”

There was a ghost-like shadow which passed over Mr. Stark’s eyes. A pinch in the man’s lips grimaced, shifting under some invisible weight. When he noticed Peter’s inquisitive gaze on him, the haunted look dissipated into a more neutral expression.

“Enough about that,” Mr. Stark dismissed the conversation. “Wanna talk to you about something else entirely.”

That made Peter even more nervous than before. What else did Mr. Stark want to talk to him about?

Mr. Stark reached underneath the workbench and pulled out a cardboard box. He tipped it over on top of the workbench, the contents spilling out. There were clothes—blue pants, blue shirt, and a red hoodie with a… wait. Peter looked closer to the objects. Blue pants. Blue shirt. Red hoodie with a spider symbol and a red mask with black goggles.

Holy shit! This was his old suit!

Peter reached for the red hoodie, his hand brushing up against the black spider chest emblem. "You kept it?"

"Yeah, of course," Mr. Stark said, moving most of the outfit to the side. "You seriously need an upgrade though. I’m surprised anyone ever took you seriously, swinging around in an onesie."

Peter frowned at the shade thrown at his sewing skills. "It's not an onesie."

"Still looks like crap," Mr. Stark replied, before drawing something to him. His web-shooters. He kept them too!

Mr. Stark pulled out a vial from the web-shooters. It contained Peter's web formula. "You know... I tested this out," he said after a moment, holding the vial up to Peter. "The tensile strength was off the charts! I swore you bought it from someone else, but after seeing that simulation, am I correct in saying you designed this?" He waved the vial before nudging his head to the web-shooters. "And those as well?"

Peter numbly nodded. "Yeah.”

There was a clever grin on Mr. Stark’s face as he studied the web-shooters again. “Basic in design,” he said, “but… promising. Build this from scrap parts? From junk at Salvation Army? Thrift store?”

Peter swore his cheeks reddened. “The, um, garbage… actually.”

“Dumpster diver,” Mr. Stark stated, but he didn’t seem at all disgusted by it. “Pretty impressive for a kid your age. And the web?”

“Created with some chemicals from school.”

Mr. Stark nodded along. “Got mad skills, kid,” he acknowledged. “Not just as Spider-man. Although, those are nifty as well.”

Peter didn’t know how to respond. “Err… thanks.”

That made Iron Man chuckle. “Relax kid,” he said, putting the web-shooters back down on the workbench. “You’re not in any trouble.”

That was good to know, but Peter didn’t feel any less uncomfortable. He was anxious, stressed and uncertain. There had to be a reason why Mr. Stark brought him up here other than wanting to talk about his performance in the simulation or his web-shooters. The man avoided him for… Peter didn’t know the exact length of time, but knew it was at least a few months. And now, Peter stood in the man’s workshop, discussing his Spider-man outfit. Why?

“Your thoughts are loud.”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“Do you overthink often?” Mr. Stark said without answering Peter. “Because that’s not a good habit to have. If you want answers kid, just have to ask. Or search for them. Whichever the two.”

If only it were that simple. He asked for Mr. Stark several times and was denied. He asked for answers and received no response.

Mr. Stark frowned a little. “I’m not going to bite your head off,” he said, getting up from his stool and moving to one of the shelving units. “What’s on your mind?”

Now or never, Peter supposed. “Why am I here?”

The one question he never got a true answer to. They were all hidden underneath complications or buried underneath the Accords. No one gave him a direct answer to the question. They all bushed around it. Maybe now, Mr. Stark would give him straight answers.

Mr. Stark plucked something off the shelf and came back to the workbench. “You’re here because I wanted to get your input,” he responded, pulling the web-shooters back to him. “Thought you would enjoy having a say in how you want these web-shooters of yours to work.”

“Huh?” It was all Peter offered, stumped by the response he never saw coming.

Mr. Stark chuckled lightly. “As I said before, your original design is basic. Doesn’t allow much flexibility,” he explained to Peter. “Figured you and I can brainstorm and come up with some different components to add on. What do you say?”

Peter became aware that the object Mr. Stark took from the shelf was a toolbox. He was serious. Iron Man offered him a once in a lifetime chance to work with him on a project. The famed Avenger coveted his workshop and Peter heard rumors the man rarely let anyone inside, so Peter realized the significance of his situation.

His mouth remained agape and eyes unmoving. “What?”

“I’m asking you to—wait, hold on,” Mr. Stark drew up another stool and passed it onto Peter. “Here—take a seat. You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Peter slowly lowered himself onto the stool.

“And why are you still wearing your jacket?" Mr. Stark snapped at something behind Peter. "Dum-E!”

Peter felt something pluck his hat right off his head. He snapped around, surprised to find the robot with the claw arm behind him, holding his hat and now pecking at his coat.

He pulled his coat off him and handed it to the demanding robot. "Thank you," he murmured to the robot who wheeled away with his clothes. 

“There," Mr. Stark said with a smile. "Now, you're more comfortable.” And he rolled his stool over toward Peter. Close enough that their knees almost touched. Peter instinctively scooted an inch or two back from him. “Look, kid—it’s pretty straightforward. I’m asking if you want to remodel your web-shooters.”

“No, um, I get that,” Peter said, glancing at his web-shooters and then back to Mr. Stark, “but why am I here?”

Mr. Stark pulled his eyebrows forward, his expression drawn in a conundrum. “I think I did a thorough explanation on that.”

Peter shook his head. “No… no, I mean—why do you care?” he changed up his words. “You never bothered yourself before nor cared to talk to me so… why am I _here_?”

He watched Mr. Stark’s face morphed into full comprehension. Mr. Stark did a long, slow nod, sitting straighter in his seat. “I see—well, first off, I did care. _Do_ care,” he said to Peter with certainty of a confident man. “It’s why I had Simon, Nellie, Vision and Reynolds with you.”

Hearing all of those names knotted Peter’s intestines. “The same people who made me miserable?”

“Miserable?” Mr. Stark questioned, tone doubtful of Peter’s accusation. “If you call keeping you safe and well-cared as torture, then sure—miserable.”

“They hated me.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Mr. Stark countered. “Especially with Vision, who constantly praises you, and Nellie, who adores you. As for Simon and Reynolds—well, they’re good people, but with ego issues. Yet, I still doubt they hate you. Annoyed? Probably.”

“Then they certainly showed it on daily basis,” Peter retorted, thinking off all of the two men’s’ antagonistic behavior toward him. “Besides—if you actually cared, then you wouldn’t be ignoring me. Or telling people that you didn’t want anything to do with me. Saying that you were hands-off and—”

Mr. Stark flipped a hand up to silence Peter’s rant. “Stop! Back up,” he ordered, looking serious. “Who said that I didn’t want anything to do with you?”

“Everyone.”

“Like who?”

Peter gave him a list of names and all Mr. Stark did was shake his head. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned, looking frustrated by the way his jaw went rigid. He looked back down at Peter. “I never said that. None of that is true.”

Didn’t matter if he didn’t say it, Peter thought. “You still ignored me.”

“Well, when you’re as busy as I am,” Mr. Stark responded with an irritated huff. “It’s hard to do house calls. Unless it’s important. I entrusted Reynolds and the others to look after you while I was away. If there was anything wrong—I was told about it. I came when there was a serious situation.”

Peter thought of when Powers nearly smashed his face in. “I don’t remember you being there.”

“Probably because you were out,” Mr. Stark replied, casually like Peter’s allegation didn’t offend him at all. “You wouldn’t remember, but I was. Whenever you were in trouble, I was there.”

Mr. Stark’s face changed. It shifted into a more dark and intense scrutiny that made Peter grip the sides of his stool. “Listen, kid, I never said I wanted nothing to do with you. Nothing about a hands-off approach either,” he added. “I’ve told others that. Multiple times, because being me, everyone wants to talk to you. Gotta learn to neutralize people and not get caught up with pointless matters. I’ve told a multitude of people that I do not care and to never bother me.

“But you!” Mr. Stark poked at Peter, his eyes unblinkingly and straight. “You were never one of them.”

The man lowered his finger and busied his hands with an automatic screwdriver. “Whoever told you otherwise was lying to you,” he stated. “Probably because they thought if I didn’t want to talk to them, then I wouldn’t want to talk to a child.”

Peter shifted in his seat underneath Mr. Stark’s gaze. “Yeah, well… you never did. Not even when we first met.”

Iron Man’s face wrinkled in reflection before the dawning of memory hit him and his face sunk in with guilt. “Yeah—I was annoyed, but not at you,” Mr. Stark promised to the young boy. “Mad about something else and I’m sorry if I seemed like a jerk to you then. I had a lot on my plate.”

“And you don’t now?” Peter challenged, his arms crossing over his chest.

Mr. Stark smirked. “Not at the moment,” he said. “Which brings us back to this very moment.”

He pushed the web-shooters toward Peter. “You wanna work on these with me?” he asked. “Or do you want to go? Get back to you’re… I don’t know what you were doing before, but you don’t have to stay here with me. You can go on your way.”

Peter rolled his lips in and thought. Certainly, he was resentful at Mr. Stark for holding him hostage and keeping him away from his aunt. A lot of words bubbled in his throat, screams and protests that may purge the anger that returned in his heart. So many things he wanted to say to Mr. Stark and get the man to feel awful and full of guilt!

But, at the same time, Peter was lured at the idea of working side-by-side with the genius. Tweaking on his own web-shooters and updating it to make them better—it was a dream come true! And maybe… maybe Mr. Stark meant his words. Something of a miscommunication. Maybe Mr. Stark felt sorry for all that transpired.

And then Peter remembered. All the horribleness and the late night tears. The insults and beatings. It angered Peter all over again.

One of Peter’s web-shooters was pushed toward him, followed by a hologram of some mechanical schematics. His eyes widened at the screen, studying the diagrams in front of him. It was magnificent! The designs showed different possibilities in using his web-shooters. Different combinations than a simple straight line of web.

“I took the liberty of coming up with a few different combinations,” Mr. Stark’s voice filtered into Peter’s head. “Nothing too crazy. But, I figured it was a start.”

Peter marveled at the design concepts before he shifted his gaze from the hologram to Mr. Stark. The man bore a quiet, knowing smile like he already knew he hooked Peter. “What do you think?” Mr. Stark asked, leaning against the workbench. “Got anything better?”

Peter flickered a glance back to the diagram and ideas were formulating in his mind. Growing and growing that it made Peter’s hurt lessen and the dream came closer.

“Yeah,” Peter replied with a smirk of his own. “I have a few thoughts.”

* * *

Peter and Mr. Stark swapped ideas, drew up concepts and even started hammering away on his web-shooters. It was the most fun Peter had in a long time. He got to tinker with his web-shooters, work with tools that cost twice as much as his family’s apartment alone and he witnessed his own designs come to fruition.

Best part was Mr. Stark complimenting on his own schematics. Peter flushed with pride so quick his face went red like a cherry tomato.

But, as always, good things came to an end when Peter’s stomach let out a disturbed growl. When that gurgled noise punctured the sound of tools whirling and whizzing, Peter realized he was starving. What time was it?

Mr. Stark checked his watch. “Jesus! No wonder you’re hungry,” he remarked. “It’s past eight.”

“ _At_ _night_?”

Mr. Stark softly chuckled. “Yes… at night.”

Peter panicked. “Mr. Reynolds is going to kill me!” he half-shouted, jumping up from his stool. “I’m in so much trouble—”

“Relax,” Mr. Stark tried to calm him down. “Reynolds knows you’re with me.”

“He does?” Peter was surprised by the revelation. “H-How—”

“Either someone told him or he figured it out on his own,” Mr. Stark shrugged. “If he doesn’t know by now, then I need to reconsider his position as squad leader.

“Anyway, you best get down to the cafeteria to eat,” Mr. Stark concluded, dragging Peter away from the workbench. “You’re already skin and bones. Come on, hop to!”

“But…” Peter looked back to his web-shooters. Already torn apart and needed put together once they finished calculating and inputting their data, “… my web-shooters?”

“I’ll finish up,” Mr. Stark promised, “but you need to eat. A growing boy like you needs food. And a growing enhanced boy needs more.”

He whistled at something and Peter heard the sound of mechanical wheels moving to them. It was Dum-E. It had his coat and hat. Peter thanked the robot, but he wished to stay. At least keep his web-shooters. He missed them. They were his life-line.

But, Mr. Stark wasn’t letting him stay. He hustled the boy to the lone elevator, clicking on the button. “You did good, kiddo,” he complimented Peter. “You are far smarter than you let people on. Well, except Fitz-Simmons. He told me you were quite a budding genius.”

“I don’t know about—”

“Ah-ah,” Mr. Stark interrupted him. “Don’t cut me off. Not when I’m complimenting you. You know—my dad never really gave me a lot of support, and so… I’m trying to break the cycle of shame.”

The elevator arrived and Mr. Stark guided Peter to the center. “Anyway… great things are about to happen, Peter,” he announced. “But first—you need to eat. Keep up that strength of yours.”

Peter’s furrowed his brows in confusion. “What do you mean ‘great things’?”

The man only offered him a grin. “You’ll see, Mr. Parker,” he said and then addressed the AI. “FRIDAY? To the cafeteria please? Pete here needs his dinner.”

The doors started to close and Mr. Stark gave him a small wave. “Good-night!”

The doors closed, trapping Peter and it sent him straight down to the cafeteria level. It was great misfortunate that he was intercepted by Mr. Reynolds, who appeared out of nowhere. Due to Peter’s disappearance for nearly the entire day, he had make-up workouts to do before he went anywhere else.

On an empty stomach, Peter ran a time two-mile, completed three sets of fifty pull-ups and a full round of a hundred sit-ups and push-ups. Exhausted, sore and hungry, he was at near collapse when Mr. Reynolds deemed it was good enough and allowed him entry to the cafeteria.

With his stomach screaming in protest, Peter skipped the showers and went straight to the cafeteria for some food. It was basically closed with no warm food for his belly, but they offered him cold-cut sandwiches and fruit for the night. Peter gobbled it up, licking his fingers cleaned and sucking as much juice from the core of the apple to satisfy his stomach.

As his stomach settled into a comfortable contentment, Peter went for a quick shower, scrubbing off the layer of sweat and dust from laying on the gym floor. Cleaned and warmed from the hot water, Peter wrapped a towel around his waist and slide his coat over his bare chest. He carried his old, smelly clothes and shoes with him as he pattered back to his room, ready for a long night sleep.

His took a few steps into the room before he came to a halt.

There was a brown bag in the middle of his twin bed. On the bag was a note, scribbled with words that was hard to see in the dark.

Peter dropped his dirty clothes off to the side and flipped the lights on. He approached the bed and took the note off the bag:

_These belongs to you – TS_

Peter read the note twice before he put it down and grabbed the bag. He opened it, taking a quick peak inside.

“What the…”

Peter dug his hand inside the bag, snatching the object from within and pulling them out of the bag. His web-shooters!

He gaped at seeing his web-shooters back in his hands. They were not broken or unassembled like he last saw them. They were put together, modeled in much better material.

Peter sank to his bed, admiring the sleek and modern version of his web-shooters. He hooked one of them to his wrist, eager to test-try and see if they were in working order. He messed with the gadget, trying to get it to turn on when a beam of light shot out. Peter jerked for a second in fright, but when he realized it wasn’t a laser, inched right back.

It was only a beam of light, shooting up to the ceiling.

Peter followed the trail to the ceiling. His face burst with amazement and he couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped his lips.

Up on the ceiling was a projected signal very similar to the mask of his Spider-man suit.


	12. Truce

Next morning, Peter woke up to his basic routine of early morning practice followed by a shower that eventually led into breakfast. No one said anything about his disappearance from last night's practice, but it may have been too early for Powers to come up with a scathing remark. No one bothered him and Peter tended to himself, slurping up the breakfast provided to him. It was when he finished eating his bowl of oats that the big man named Happy arrived.

He told Peter to follow him. Peter took his last few bites before he put up the tray and went with Happy. The man had something in his hand, but Peter couldn’t see it with the man fast-walking ahead of him.

When they got to some random door on some random level, did Happy stop to face him. “Here you go,” he handed Peter whatever was in his hand. “Boss wants you to practice a bit.”

Peter was handed his web-shooters. The new ones. “Did you go through my room?”

“Well, yeah,” Happy grumpily answered. “How else did I get them?” He opened the door for Peter to step in. “Tony thinks you'll find this adequate spacing to give your web-shooters a go.”

Peter stepped further into the room, scanning all around him. It wasn’t big like Mr. Stark’s workshop nor did it come with any furnishing. It was a simple and empty room. Basic and unassuming.

He turned back to Happy, who stood by the door. “Are you supposed to be, um, helping me with this or…”

Happy snorted. “Me? Teach you? Yeah. Right.” And Happy backed out, holding onto the doorknob to close. “Practice your web shooting thing here, okay? Later.”

And Happy closed to the door. Peter didn’t hear the door lock.

Not trapped. Free to leave if he wished. Peter looked away from the door and stared back down at his web-shooters. Maybe it was a good idea to give it a test run. It’s been a while since he was swinging from building to building.  

Peter attached the web-shooters on his wrist and felt them activate upon touch, the metal warming his skin a bit. Time for a refresher course as he turned to unleash his first stream of webbing.

Holy guacamole! These web-shooters were awesome!

Mr. Stark delivered on his promise and Peter barely contained his joy when he noticed that half of the combinations were of his own designs.

He faced the blank wall and practiced each combination set in his new web-shooters.

“Ricochet web,” Peter read aloud the small print and he threw it at the wall.

Big mistake. The ball of web hit the wall and returned right for his head like a bullet. Peter ducked in time to avoid being tangled up in a web-net.

“Whoa!” he muttered in a surprised gasp, drawn to the possibilities of using that particular web. “That’s… so cool. What else you got?”

Peter fired every web combination at the wall ranging from web grenade to splitter web to taser webbing. The blank canvas room soon resembled a haunted house with all the webs latched to its walls and corners. Although, none of them stuck onto Peter and he walked through the mass webbing with no problem.

The whole thing was brilliantly bizarre! He admired his craftsmanship, thinking of all the possible things he could do as Spider-man with the new gadget.

And then he remembered. He was never going to be Spider-man again. The streets of Queens were far away from him. There was no chance of swinging from building to building, flying up in the air like a roller coaster. Feeling a thousand butterflies in his stomach as he whooshed into action, saving lives and helping people. That was gone. 

He was only Peter Parker. A boy trapped in a massive compound, surrounded by confusion and cruelty. Forced into a training regimen with others to become something he's not. 

Peter looked down at his web-shooters. They were his. Yet, tainted with something Peter didn't want to accept. 

He sighed and flickered his gaze up to the cob-webbed ceiling. "Um... FRIDAY?"

She never answered him before, but he hoped maybe she would now. 

“Yes, Peter?" came the Irish voice in response. "How may I help you?”

“Oh! Um… ” Peter was thrown by FRIDAY’s answer. And that she knew his name. "Do you know where I can find Mr. Stark? I need to talk to him.”

"I am not allowed to divulge Boss's location," came FRIDAY's quick response.

"It's just to talk to him," Peter tried to get through to the AI.

It didn't work. "I'll let him know you wish to speak to him."

And that was it. FRIDAY may or may not pen him into Tony Stark's busy schedule, but it didn't matter. Peter understood the message. Peter huffed at the dismissive treatment and decided he would leave a message anyway for Mr. Stark or Mr. Happy to find.

He unlatched his web-shooters from his wrists and dumped them to the floor, right by his feet. Without hesitation of regret or longing, Peter marched to the door.

“Peter?”

The AI called to him, but Peter kept going.

“You forgot your web-shooters.”

Peter wrenched the door open and walked out.

* * *

Peter apologized for his tardiness when he arrived at the make-shift classroom ten minutes late. He gave no excuse. Only a polite apology before he sat down for his five-hour school day. From the point on, the day blurred into the rest of his days. He desensitized from one activity to the next. Peter barely even remembered what he did. His therapy session was a bore. Dr. Samson kept talking about sports in another drastic attempt to connect with him. Luckily, Simon was no longer there as her enforcer, so Peter sat and said nothing. 

Training remained the same. Although, he noticed Mr. Reynolds was far kinder than the previous times. Almost behaving as he was prior to Peter's escape over the fence. He asked how Peter was doing. He didn't pair him at all with Powers and offered Peter the option to sit out on the last circuit run. Peter didn’t. He would rather run a thousand miles than sit alone with Mr. Reynolds. Peter was certain the man wanted to talk to him, but he wasn’t going to give him the chance.

When another day ended, Peter pitter-pattered back to his room. His wet hair laid in clumps on his forehead, keeping his forehead cool. He should have dried his hair off, but Peter didn't wish to linger longer in the locker room. No need to torture himself with Powers’ constant insults. Some subtle and others outrageous directed. 

He slumped against the wall by his door and jabbed the code. The door opened and Peter rolled off the wall and into his room, about to spring onto his bed.

“There he is!”

Peter froze.

Inside his room was Mr. Stark and the man named Happy.

Mr. Stark sat on his twin bed, looking relaxed despite wearing a three-piece suit. He wore glasses, tinted orange, making it hard for Peter to read his face. Happy stood off to the side, leaning on the dresser. He looked the same as he did that morning, albeit, a bit grumpier.

Peter looked between the two in confusion. “Um—”

“How are the web-shooters?” Mr. Stark interrupted him. “Work out all right? Need any adjustments?”

Peter swerved his head to Happy. The man said nothing nor did he even look in Peter’s direction. “They’re fine,” he answered, looking back to Mr. Stark. “They worked really great.”

“Yeah? Happy, here, told me that it looked like the nest of Shelob,” Mr. Stark remarked. “And that he also found these.”

Mr. Stark reached his hand behind him, revealing the web-shooters Peter disposed in the room. Mr. Stark looked at him for a response, a reaction of some sort, but Peter remained passive. He thought it was a loud enough statement for everyone to know.

“FRIDAY said you forgot them, but that’s not the case,” Mr. Stark said, putting the web-shooters aside. “She also said you wanted to talk. So—what’s up? Something is clearly bothering you.”

A lot of things bothered him. One of the biggest was Mr. Stark. The man had no regards for anyone. Everything revolved around him. Whatever best suited him. Well, Peter had no interest in indulging the man.

“I can’t sleep.”

Both men both wore puzzled expressions and then darted to one another, wondering if the other person understood.

“What?” inquired Mr. Stark, hoping for clarification.

Peter pointed to the twin bed that Mr. Stark occupied. “You’re sitting on my bed.”

Mr. Stark’s face contorted into a flurry of odd expressions. Almost like he couldn’t decide how to react to Peter. It took Mr. Stark a moment, but he eventually rose up from the bed. However, he still blocked Peter’s path, making it almost impossible to get to his bed.

“Okay—I see,” Mr. Stark said. “Is this the whole teenage hormonal rage thing? I read that teenagers go through a—”

“Going to stop you there,” Peter cut the man off. He didn’t need to hear him yammer on about  _that_. “I’m tired and I have early morning practice.”

“Kid—it’s nine. You can spare at least another thirty minutes.”

“No, I really can’t,” Peter replied as he moved to go around Mr. Stark to his bed. “I had a really tiring day. I just want to sleep.” He got to his bed and sat down, dropping his shoes on the floor. “Sorry if that doesn’t fit into your schedule.”

That remark triggered something in Mr. Stark. It was like a snap sounded off in his head, a connection between everything coming before him.

He turned right around to Happy. “Give us a minute here.”

Happy needed no encouragement. He left and Peter was alone with Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark didn’t move from his position, but he drew his hands into his coat pockets. His chin lowered, but Peter couldn’t see anything through those glasses.

“It’s nothing personal,” Mr. Stark broke the silence between them.

Peter raised his head up. “What is?”

“Ignoring you,” Mr. Stark answered. “I was forced into sitting in on a conference call with the UN. Not really my thing, but Rhodey said I had to because they were upset I was ignoring them – which was on purpose.

“It kept me busy all day,” Mr. Stark went on. “I would have spent it testing out the web-shooters than sit around fat politicians. Listen to them bicker and act like geniuses. It’s nauseating.”

The man paced, his hands constantly squeezing nothing. “Point is, I’m here now,” he said, coming to a halt. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Peter crinkled his face in exasperated abhorrence. The man’s nonchalance attitude irked Peter. Aunt May never treated his feelings with indifference. “Nothing,” he said, rumpling up his blanket and tugging it back to go to bed. “I’m really tired, Mr. Stark.”

“Nah-ah,” Mr. Stark grabbed the blanket and pulled it back over the pillow. “Nope. You wanted to talk.” He parked right by the headboard, keeping Peter from sleeping. “Spill, Spider-ling. What’s wrong?”

Peter bristled at the cool swagger tone. “What’s wrong?” he repeated with more force. “How about this? All of this!” He madly gestured around the four bedroom walls that appeared to cave in on him. “Kidnapping people and forcing them to fight for you like… like… we’re your personal army!

“Because you’re Tony Stark!” Peter shouted on. “You can do whatever you want and I—“

He stopped, trying to breathe. It was hard. All the emotion building up within him, taking his heart and strangling into a compressed disaster. Was he breaking? Were the pieces he desperately tried to keep together finally crumbling? Was this what it felt like to lose even an ounce of dignity? When one is nothing more than a simple prop in a world played by others.

Peter dejectedly shook his head. “Just toy soldiers marching to your drum,” he depressed, “because if we don’t…”

They go to the hole. Whatever that was. Something bad to scare people. Scare everyone.

When Peter lifted his gaze back to Mr. Stark, he realized he may have taken a step too far. After all, Peter was a nobody. Mr. Stark was a somebody with a lot of money and a lot of power.

Mr. Stark reeled back from Peter’s outburst, head tilted at an odd and questionable angle. His easy presence was gone. Wiped away and replaced with the defensive posture of a man who didn’t take an accusation lightly.

“Excuse me?”

Peter pressed his fingers into his palm, an unknown confidence rising within him. “You told me last night that you cared,” he said, remembering last night, “but… none of that was true, was it? You don’t care about anything unless it’s something you need or want. To hell with everyone else, right?”

The spur of Mr. Stark’s sudden movement frightened Peter to scuttle to the foot of the bed. He grabbed the ledge, muscles ready to spring into action. Mr. Stark didn’t charge at him. Instead, the man removed his sunglasses. Peter saw the dark eyes staring right at him. Those irises drilling into his own with strict attention, searching and analyzing that Peter averted his gaze to the soft blue blanket.

“You hungry?”

Peter snapped his head up. “What?”

How could the man ask for food after being insulted and accused by him?

Mr. Stark stood up from the bed, buttoning his jacket. “I could really use a burger. Hardly ate at all today,” he said. “Again… those dumbass politicians never give a break. Come on! Looks like you could use a burger as well. Fries too? Probably throw in a milkshake or two. How are still alive looking like skin and bones?”

Mr. Stark headed to the door, leaving Peter stupefied on the bed. What was happening?”

“Kid? You’re coming?” Mr. Stark asked as he reached the door.

Peter’s mouth gaped open and then closed, like a fish out of water. He had no idea what was happening. Did he somehow skip time? Fast-forward into the future?

“I-I… I can’t.”

Mr. Stark’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“I have… practice in the morning,” Peter mumbled his pathetic excuse.

The billionaire genius rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he said. “Hurry up. Put your shoes on.”

“I’m serious!” Peter argued. He didn’t want to go anywhere with Mr. Stark. “I can’t go wondering around—”

“Kid?” Mr. Stark interrupted him, tired of Peter’s whiny excuses. “Do you want answers or not?”

Peter’s lip quivered. “Y-Yeah. I do.”

“Then put your shoes on and follow me,” Mr. Stark ordered. “Because thirty minutes isn’t going to cover this conversation.”

* * *

Peter did not expected to be seated across a coffee table from Mr. Stark. When the man said he was hungry and was going to order burgers, Peter expected a trip to the cafeteria. Have the discussion there.

Instead, Peter was brought to one of the more private sectors of the Compound. Somewhere he never gone and imagined that this was what Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons meant by “upstairs”. Everything was sleek and clean, like in one of those sparkle-clean aids. The couch itself looked and felt like it was worth Peter’s entire existence. He kept moving and adjusting his seat, afraid to leave a butt imprint on the fine sofa.

Mr. Stark hardly took a glance at the exquisite luxury around him. He ordered ahead, and shortly upon arrival, there were hamburgers, fries of all shapes and sizes and milkshakes covering the coffee table. Mr. Stark dug in, eating a hamburger and working on his bag of fries. Peter didn’t touch the food, but the aroma made his stomach stir in hopes and wishes. Peter had a feeling that Mr. Stark over-ordered to share with Peter, but he wasn’t going to be tempted. He kept his eyes away from the food and on Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark reclined into the cushion, relaxed and humming in bliss. He popped another fry in his mouth and looked back up to Peter. “Fry?” he offered, holding up his bag.

Peter shook his head. “No, thank you,” he said as Mr. Stark shrugged and put the bag down on the table. “You promised answers.”

The man adjusted his posture and wiped his hands clean on a napkin. “I did.”

“Tell me.”

The man stayed relax, not at all flustered by Peter’s demands. Almost like he was happy to be sharing the information that had been hidden from Peter since his arrival. As if it didn’t matter at all and the secrecy was nothing.

“Everything you said from before is completely false,” Mr. Stark asserted. “None of that is remotely true.”

Peter’s mouth fell open, chaffed by the transparent lie. “That’s—”

“Adult is talking,” Mr. Stark cut him off, forcing Peter to go silent. “Every single person here has come voluntarily.”

Peter felt the microchip vibrate underneath his arm. “Liar.”

Mr. Stark shook his head. “Not lying. Cross my heart,” he said making the gesture across his chest before he grabbed another fry. “Every single person here came because they wanted to.”

It was a lie. Another lie! It wasn’t true. They were all held against their will. Like him.

Mr. Stark saw the doubt pass over Peter’s face. “Tell me, short stuff,” he said, nonchalant but it lacked the normal snarky arrogance. “Did you hear anyone saying they don’t want to be there?”

Peter opened his mouth to respond with a definitive answer, but then he realized something. None of his teammates ever complained. They griped about him, but never the situation. The predicament they found themselves in.

“See anyone chained to a wall?” Mr. Stark went on. “With a ball and chain? Behind bars? Wearing a collar and held by a leash?”

Peter rolled his eyes at the sarcastic repartee, but he raked his mind to find evidence to support himself. He came up empty. There was no recollection of his teammates ever wearing the bracelet he was forced to wear. No one in the cafeteria or in the locker room or hallways. No one. He saw no one else wear what he had to wear every day.

Then again, he wore a microchip now. “I do,” he said, lifting his arm up to Mr. Stark. “I bet others do too. I just don’t know about it.”

“Very few do,” Mr. Stark replied quickly, unconcerned. “Not to keep them from running though, but to keep them in check. Dangerous and distrustful individuals are microchipped to protect others here at the Compound. Not everyone here is as friendly as you.

“They agreed to it,” Mr. Stark explained. “Accepted it as part of the arrangement to stay at the Compound. Be microchipped and get to train with the big boys.”

Peter scrunched his face, thinking who would outrageously agree to be microchipped. He wanted to claw his out. And would do so if he knew he wouldn’t be zapped into unconsciousness. The microchip was a constant reminder of how little control he had of his own life.

“I didn’t get that choice,” Peter murmured, looking at his arm. “It was forced on me.”

“Yeah, well, in your case, you were unreliable,” Mr. Stark responded, shoving in a small handful of fries into his mouth. “You’re like a puppy. Can’t be trusted to stay put and behave.”

“So, you activated a microchip that would track my every move and send electrical shocks to knock me down?” Peter questioned, feeling less and less like a human being. “Like a shock collar for a puppy?”

“Well, if we are going to go with that metaphor, then I suppose the answer is yes,” he reluctantly agreed to the metaphor. “Didn’t want to, but kind of have too after you ran off like that. Couldn’t risk you getting loose again.”

Peter’s nostril flared at the belittled treatment he had become. He went from a person to a dog. Trained to be a good boy and follow instructions. Learn to attack on command and be the stiff, obeying dog to its master.

Peter’s stomach hardened and his waistline cramped. He folded his arms over it, wishing he stayed back in the bedroom.

“Back to the point of this discussion,” Mr. Stark clapped his hand together. “Everyone here came voluntarily and accepted the terms. They stayed and are happy to keep doing this because they know how dangerous the world is. They know that there is something much bigger on the horizon, lurking in the shadows, and like me, they want to be ready.

“Earth needs defenders,” Mr. Stark pressed on with more gravity than Peter ever heard that he actually listened more closely to Mr. Stark. “The Avengers were once that, but not anymore. Those days are in the past. We need to focus on the future, because up there,” He pointed up to the ceiling, but Peter figured he was pointing at the sky. Space and the great beyond, “that’s the endgame, kid. That’s what we need to worry about. They all know that. And they all accept it as their rightful duty to protect Earth from another repeat of New York.”

A quiet moment tremored the room. A crack that split the air and left Peter even more uncertain about the world around him. He remembered that day in New York. When a hole opened the sky and all these ugly menacing monsters dropped on New York in a hellfire of fury. He saw it through a window. A horror shot straight from the television. People were afraid. People were running. People were dying. And Peter watched from his window, wondering if anyone could save them.

When Peter got his powers, he fantasied being a member of the group who did arrive and defeated the aliens. He saw himself fighting alongside Captain America, swinging around buildings with Iron Man flying next to him and he visualized himself picking up Mjölnir and using it to defend a fallen Thor. He wanted to be one of the good guys. To be one of the heroes his younger self prayed for when New York was under attack.

He guessed everyone else thought the same thing.

But, if they had no problem with recruitment, why the sudden swarm of restraints on him? Why the need to be microchipped and followed? Why? Why? Why?

“If you had people volunteering then… why did was I kidnapped?” Peter began his questioning with hands flat on the seat cushions, “Why do you need me?”

“Hm?” Mr. Stark hummed.

“Why do you need me?” Peter repeated. He needed to know. Too tired being kept in the dark and told to blindly follow. “What do you want from me?”

Mr. Stark let out a haggard sigh. He too was tired. Exhaustion dug deep into the man’s skin and hung off his bones. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Then why did you bring me here?” Peter demanded, though it sounded more like a whine than a manly objection. “Why did you take me away from my home?  _My_   _family_?”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes you did!” Peter shouted, eyes burning and he was upset all over again. “You kidnapped me… a-and brought me here. Against my will! A-and you won’t let me out. Or call my aunt. And—”

“Kid!” Mr. Stark called, his voice overtaking Peter’s rant. “I didn’t bring you here nor did I ask you to be brought here. I never even knew you existed until that day I met you.”

Peter blinked away the angry tears, stumped, but also disbelieving the man. “Liar.”

Mr. Stark furiously shook his head as he raised his hand up in a subdued manner, like he was trying to ease a childish tantrum. “No, that’s the truth,” he swore to Peter before he turned his head askew. “You really don’t remember what happened?”

Peter didn’t, but Deadpool filled in some of the missing gaps for him. “I know you hired Deadpool to kidnap me.”

He watched Mr. Stark’s face convert into a disgusted mien. His lips twisted in scowl. “I didn’t hire that psycho to kidnap you,” Mr. Stark rebuffed the accusation. “Deadpool is a member of the United Nations enforcers unit. They’re like—bounty hunters! They go off and try to collect as many enhanced individuals they can and bring them in. Deadpool caught you and turned you into the UN. When I discovered you were a kid—Jesus! I tried to fix the situation, but they already put you in the system.”

“The system?”

“The Accords!” Mr. Stark accentuated, madly gesturing with his hands. “You said you followed the news, right? The Sokovia Accords. Enhanced individuals – like you – must register with the UN and provide biometric data such as fingerprints and DNA samples. They have you in the system, kid. Everything from blood samples to birth certificate to school records. They have everything!”

Peter squirmed at the sudden violation, wrapping his arms around him in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself. No one else would.

“It put us in a delicate situation,” Mr. Stark continued on, wagging a finger between him and Peter. “A fifteen year old kid. Half the age of our youngest  _adult_  recruit. What the hell am I supposed to do with a kid?”

“Could have let me go?” Peter replied, dryly

Mr. Stark somberly shook his head. “You’re not getting it,” he said, disappointed. “You are in the system! There’s no setting you free. Not with the UN knowing about you. They can’t have some fifteen year old kid, who can stop an out-of-control car with his bare hands, running around playing hero unsupervised! That’s the fucking reason they created the Accords. Culpability and responsibility for the actions of enhanced individuals. And letting you just go on your merry way would make them look bad.”

“And that’s why they had Deadpool kidnap me?” Peter said, crossed. “Because they didn’t want to look like idiots?”

“No! You’re not—” Mr. Stark crushed his fingers into a ball on his face. “Listen—Deadpool and other enforcers hunt enhanced people who haven’t made their decision on the Accords. They capture them to force them to make that decision. Deadpool found you and got you. That’s all. There was no order about kidnapping you. He saw an opportunity to make money and took it.”

Peter was only a commodity. A paycheck for someone else while they get to live freely and he got to waste away in a small room, away from everyone he loves. The longer he stayed in the conversation, the less human he was to everyone.

He wanted his aunt. She would treat him like a person. Love him like a person too.

Mr. Stark ran his fingers through his hair, making it more disheveled and less groomed than the perfect Stark standard. “It put me in a tight spot,” he said, holding his hands out, palms up. “I had Ross and politicians on one end and…  _you_  at the other.”

He sounded despaired. Guilt weighed heavily on his slackened shoulders as Peter watched those dark eyes drift to the floor. The man looked drained, as if all the work and attempts to explain the situation to Peter burrowed into his skin and settled on his bones.

Another breath released a bundle of stress from Mr. Stark. “I was faced with a hard decision,” he said, uncharacteristically as if he truly hated the position he was forced into, “but I made the best choice for you.”

Peter thought back to all those  _best choices_  he suffered. Because of them. Because of Mr. Stark. “I can make my own choices,” Peter claimed.

“Not this time, kid.”

“Why?” Peter threw back at Mr. Stark. “Everyone else got a chance to decide! Why not me?”

“Because.”

Peter irritably shook his head. “That’s not good enough,” he contended. “I have the right to make my own choices! Especially when it’s my life!” There was a bit of heat returning to his cheeks. A desperate thirst to make his own rules and have his own voice. “I want to go home! Okay? That’s my decision.”

Mr. Stark looked on with repentance, but firm in his stance. He was not going to be moved by Peter’s speech.

Peter clutched the edge of the sofa. “Take me home!”

Mr. Stark said nothing.

It unnerved Peter. “I want to go home! I want my aunt! She’s probably worried sick about me and…”

Peter suddenly remembered Mr. Stark’s words from before, something about taking care of his aunt. “What did you do to her?” he demanded to know, lunging forward so suddenly that Mr. Stark jerked back. The last he heard about his aunt was from Nat and he hadn’t seen her ever again. “Where is she? Does she know what you’re doing? Does she know where I am—”

“Your aunt has been taken care of,” Mr. Stark assured him, but that sent a rock into Peter’s gut. “She’s been informed of the situation and she’s being well taken care of.”

“What… what do you mean by that?”

“I mean you don’t have to worry.”

“I am worried!” Peter shouted. How could he not? “I don’t trust you! Any of you!”

“Peter—”

“No!” Peter shot up from his seat, backing away from Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark didn’t jump up after him. He stayed seated, watching Peter freak out.

“You can’t do this! It’s wrong!” Peter cried, trying to reach the man’s heart. If there was one. “I’m a kid! Not a solider! Or a dog! Or—”

“You don’t think I know that?” Mr. Stark uttered in prickled rage from the constant charge. He got up from his seat now, moving along the edge of table to get around it. “I know you’re a kid, Peter! Everyone here knows! But we’re doing our best.  _I_  am doing my best to make this whole situation go away and get you back to your aunt.”

That… that surprised Peter. He didn’t expect that response at all. “What?” he said, breathlessly. Did he hear what he thought heard?

The man’s whole body sagged. “I didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Mr. Stark began, shoulders slouched as the man slowly paced in front of Peter. “Since you came here, I’ve been working endlessly to try and find a way to get you back to your aunt without any consequences. That’s why I haven’t been around the Compound. That’s why I’ve had Reynolds, Simon, Nellie and Vision looking after you. Keep you safe and secured so that I can return you in one piece back to your aunt.

“Granted—you made that really hard with your reckless behavior,” Mr. Stark added as a quip. “Jumping out of the building and then running wildly and aimlessly in the woods. Then, you nearly gave me a heart attack when I found you fighting Deadpool at that gas station!”

Peter perked up at that long ago memory. He recalled his brief fight with Deadpool. He remembered the katana, swinging over his head and then… bolts of lightning spazzing his muscles into submission. His senses dying on him. The last sound of metal groaning and a cool touch on his cheek.

“You.”

Mr. Stark stopped in his tracks. “What?”

Peter stared wide-eyed at the man. “It was you!” he pointed. “You captured me at the gas station. Not Deadpool!”

“Yeah, it was me,” Mr. Stark confirmed, circling back around the table and dropping into his old seat. “And I’m glad I found you when I did. Deadpool is psychotic. And not only that, if he caught you, you and I wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

“Why not?”

Mr. Stark shrugged, flicking his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t matter why because it didn’t happen,” he said. “I found you and got you out of there. Brought you back here where it was safe for you to keep living.”

Peter raised his brows in a questionable arch. “I think you and I have different definitions of the word  _safe_.”

“Be as that may, it was a very good thing I found you when I did,” Mr. Stark defended his action to attack a child. “Otherwise, you would never see your aunt again. They would make sure of that.”

“I don’t see my aunt now,” Peter refuted. No calls. No letters. No communications whatsoever. “I want my aunt. I want to go home.”

“You  _will_.”

“And I don’t believe you,” Peter fired back, feeling small and childish for calling for his guardian. For being afraid and wanting her to hold him. He was a teenager and still wanted his aunt. “You won’t let me call her. You won’t let me see her. How can I know that I ever will? I’ve been here for… I don’t even know how long I’ve been here because no one tells me anything!”

“Because I’m telling you that you will!” Mr. Stark swore as if his decree were the words of God. Final and in stone. “Peter—I’m trying to find a way to get you back to your aunt. You think I want you here? Surrounded by assholes and power-hungry fools?”

Peter wanted to scream yes, but seeing the serious consternation on the man’s face made him pause. There was deep tension in the man’s face. The kind that scarred a man’s aura, leaving a long shadow in its wake. Mr. Stark had heavy bags that drooped his eyes down and his hair kept getting messier and messier for the constant finger rakes. And when Mr. Stark spoke, there was a rawness to his voice.

“I want you to be home! I want you to be able to walk out of these doors, back to your aunt, without worrying about Deadpool coming after you or the UN,” Mr. Stark grounded out in some desperate reasoning. “Where you can go back home to your relatively normal life of home and school. Okay? But you gotta give me a little more time. That’s all I need.”

Peter hesitated in his answer. More time. Peter didn’t have time to offer him. Mr. Stark had all the time. All Peter had were wishes and those weren’t useful except to help him sleep. Otherwise, they antagonized him. He wanted to go home. Now! But, Mr. Stark said that impossible at the moment. All because of the Accords and the United Nations.

Maybe Peter had it all wrong. All this time, he believed Mr. Stark to be his jailor. The one holding him against his will and keeping him from his aunt. Maybe that wasn’t the truth. Maybe everyone was right when they said Mr. Stark spared his life. From what Mr. Stark told him and his brief observations, perhaps the true culprit to Peter’s pain was not Mr. Stark, but the Accords. And the United Nations council. They were the ones with the power. They were the ones that wrote out the Accords. They were the ones that sent out Deadpool. They did it all. It was them.

Mr. Stark wasn’t Peter’s jailor. He was his cell-mate. Both at the mercy of politicians who thought knew best.

“Peter,” Mr. Stark grabbed his attention again. “I will get you back home. Once I get Ross and the others to renegotiate the Accords and make the amendments, you’ll be free to go back to your aunt. Hell—I’ll let you even call her the second it’s over. Order a car up here to take you both home. Together.”

It sounded very enticing. All he had to do was wait a little longer for Iron Man to fix the problem and he could go back with his aunt. But…

“Does that mean I still have to train?” Peter asked, not enjoying the idea he would still have to follow the training regimen. “Do I have to listen to Mr. Reynolds?”

A little smirk picked up the man’s goatee. “Yeah… no. Not necessarily. I still think it’s a good idea for you to train. After all, you are Spider-man. It won’t hurt to hone your powers to better yourself. I viewed some of your fighting skills. Not exactly pro. An old boxer could wipe you flat.”

“I don’t—”

“I know. I know,” Mr. Stark said with a hand to calm him down. “You’re tougher than you look, but still. You could do better.” The man gave a long, drawn sigh. “As for working with your team. I get it. I know a thing or two about cruel teammates.”

He was talking about Captain America. What happened between the two that dissolved them into this chaotic resentment? Peter heard bits and pieces from the news about Captain America’s refusal to cooperate with the government and something about harboring a killer, but that didn’t make sense. And there was Iron Man, working alongside the government and building this new world of organized superheroes. The world Peter stepped into didn’t make sense. But it happened because the two former friends clashed.

The world changed for good all over again.

“You know what though?” Mr. Stark interrupted Peter’s dismal thoughts. “I’ll pull some strings. See if I can get you out of a few team bonding exercises. Maybe you can come and tag along with me? Help me out in my lab. You’re a mechanical genius. I could use a second pair of eyes while I build. Does that sound good?”

“What about my freedom?” Peter asked. That sounded better than good.

Deep crevices formed along Mr. Stark’s forehead. “I will give you that too, Peter,” he said, “but while I’m battling out with politicians, you gotta do something. Not hide out in your room.” Mr. Stark scooted closer to the edge of the couch. “Look—you told me you want to save everyone, right?”

Peter nodded.

“Then take use of what’s available to you. Learn more about yourself. Your powers. Get stronger in them. Learn a new skill!” Mr. Stark encouraged, sounding a little lighter than earlier. “You wanna be just Spider-Boy? Wearing an onesie and saving kitties? Or do you want to be Spider-man and do more good in the world?”

Peter picked at his cuticles, smashing them down to the point a few began to bleed. He always wanted to do more. Secretly, he dreamed of joining the Avengers when he got a bit better at being Spider-man. Was it worth it? All the abuse and the degrading? Just to get stronger? And Peter can’t even use his web-shooters during those practices. There was no place for him to practice swinging from building to building. All of it was combat fighting or endurance training. None of it was adjusted for Spider-man training.

That meant little compared to what he truly wanted. Yet, Mr. Stark claimed it would take time to free him without collateral damages. He remembered from politics and history classes that negotiations and amendments took a long time. Did Peter have that time? Or would his mental state break into nothing?

“Kid?”

Peter slowly lifted his gaze back to the man.

“I’ll admit I did a crappy job looking after you these past few months,” Mr. Stark started his apology with an admission of guilt, the words heavy with shame. “I guess I trusted others to do what I would have done, but I keep forgetting they aren’t as smart as me. Anyway, I’ll be more open to you. I won’t shut you out, kid. I promise. If you ever want to speak to me or need something, tell FRIDAY. Okay? I’ll come.”

Peter’s hands squeezed his side, hugging himself for a sliver of comfort in the face of a life-changing decision. “What about the Accords?” he asked. “How are you going to fix them? How long will it take for me to get out of here?”

Mr. Stark sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Hopefully, not too long,” he said. “Really got to get those politicians’ asses in gear. Once I revoke money or threaten to go to the press, things will work faster. But, need to reach a compromise first. Been working on it from the start, so… I want to stay positive and say… soon-ish.”

Peter crinkled his brows forward. That was not a definite time nor answer. “Soon-ish?”

“Give or take,” Mr. Stark offered up as a secondary answer. “All I know is that I will work hard on getting you released. Once the i’s are dotted, t’s crossed and the ink dried, I’ll let you be the first person to know. Deal?”

He wanted to say no. Say absolutely not. But that was the petulant child in him again. Mr. Stark wasn’t the bad guy. He was a victim of the system too. The man was doing everything in his power to get Peter out of the situation. The least Peter could do was not antagonize him anymore. Cooperate if it meant he could get home quicker. Back to Aunt May.

“Okay… I guess,” Peter answered, stiffly. Not happy, but not upset. “But once that happens, I get to call my aunt.”

He needed that agreement to be honored. That was the most important thing to Peter.

Mr. Stark nodded. “You can call your aunt,” he affirmed. “The minute we get this taken care of, you can call her and I’ll order the fanciest vehicle to take you and her both home.”

Peter eyed Mr. Stark, needing more than a simple nod. “You promise?”

“Promise.”

Peter relaxed. He had Mr. Stark’s word. The second the UN freed him, Peter was going to call his aunt. Go back home. Hug his Aunt May and see his friends. Everything would go back to normal. All he had to do is wait it out. Wait for Mr. Stark to clean up the disaster that happened because he was not the age everyone thought Spider-man was.

The silence between them was less tense. There was a surge of understanding and acceptance between the two. Both were in position they hated, and they were going to do their best to get out of it.

They could do it. Peter believed it.

Mr. Stark held out his bag of near-depleted fries. “Fry?” he offered again.

Peter looked at the greasy fries, limp in the bag. The conversation burned him out. All the knowledge and obstacles exhausted him, but also made him a tad hungry as well. After all, his dinner wasn’t as appetizing as he wished and he ate little of it.

He eyed the French fries, thinking. It was only one fry.

Slowly, Peter reached over to the outstretched bag and plucked a fry from the bag. “Thanks,” he said to Mr. Stark and he retook his seat, settling into the soft cushion.

“Help yourself to some more,” Mr. Stark waved at the full table. “Got most of it for you anyway.”

Peter nibbled on the fry as he eyed the juicy burger in the corner. One meal with Mr. Stark wouldn’t hurt.


	13. Itsy Bitsy

Peter stayed up a lot longer than he intended.

He dug into the food, finishing off three hamburgers, two bags of fries and half of a milkshake before the grease caught up to his digestive system. Mr. Stark stayed and the two chatted. Surprisingly, Peter found it easy to talk to the man. He thought it would be hard to hold a conversation with an intimidating intellectual, but Mr. Stark was relatively easy to converse. The man shared the same interests as Peter and they were able to sprout off arguments and make lighthearted jabs at one another (Mr. Stark more so than Peter. He didn't want to push his luck by offending Iron Man). 

It was near midnight when Mr. Stark suggested Peter get to bed. After all, it was a school night. Mr. Stark even messaged Mr. Reynolds to excuse Peter from morning practice. Peter walked back to his room with a bit of a skip in his step. For once, he would get to have the showers all to himself and be first in line for breakfast. 

He returned to his room, kicking his shoes off to flop into his bed. His hip pinched a metal screw, jerking Peter right up in his bed. The web-shooters! He forgotten about them. He reached over, delicately holding them in contemplation. Mr. Stark made a good point. Being a prisoner didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything. He could learn. Train more. Be a stronger, better hero. Use those skills to become the hero he wanted to become.

A tired sigh fell from his lips. Not a bad idea to have something up his sleeves. Especially in a den full of wolves. Peter moved the web-shooters behind his headboard, hoping it would be a better hiding spot than underneath his dresser.

Never know when he may need them.

* * *

Peter lost track of time for good. Since the morning after his long talk with Mr. Stark, his routine was thrown off-kilter, leaving him struggling to know where he needed to be at that moment. After breakfast and a warm shower, he headed off to the library to study.

The librarian that morning smiled and greeted Peter warmly. Like always, Peter was the only visitor. Her only contact outside the world of books. She was pleased to see him and asked if he came to finish his selection of Bohr’s writings. Being her only visitor had its perks. She already unshelved Bohr’s collection and ready at Peter’s favorite desk.

Thanking her, Peter sat comfortably in his chair, opening the first book in the stack. He only got into a few pages when his spidey-sense warned him that the library became crowded. New voices filtered through his super-hearing. Voices he never heard. Voices that tried to whisper, but yelled loud in his ear.

They were moving through the stacks and Peter picked his head up to see two beastly looking men turn around the shelves. Their hungry eyes on him.

Peter’s curled over his book, ducking his head and hoping to be unnoticeable. If he curled himself into a ball, he would become invisible. Why were they there? No one visited the library. It was his private place.

He heard their footsteps come closer. Step. Step. Step. Stomp.

Shadows draped overhead, darkening the words. Peter saw the hairs on his arm stand up. Not good.

Peter cranked his head up from his book. They towered over him, curled sneers glaring down on him. One of the men wore a baseball cap, but Peter saw those blue eyes blaze out of the dark, zeroing right on him. His buffed arms matched Luke Cage as he gripped the ends of the chair across from Peter.

Please don’t sit down, Peter silently prayed. Don’t sit. Don’t sit. Don’t sit—

The man pulled the chair out and took a seat. His companion, just as tall and intimidating with dark hair and a disfigured, misshaped face, took the next empty chair. They pulled up to the desk, still focused on Peter with intense judgment and it prickled Peter’s senses, sending chills through his body.

“Hey there,  _Spidey_ ,” said the baseball hat man. “Whacha reading?”

Peter darted looks between the two intruders, itching to scoot his chair far away from them. He shifted, making an effort to get the librarian’s attention with his subtle attempts to look in her direction. She wasn’t looking though. Her chin was on her chest and eyes focused on the blue hue of a screen.

The man in the baseball cap didn’t appreciate being ignored. “Hey,” he snapped, voice soft, but tone disturbing the quiet serenity of the library. “I asked you a question,  _Spidey_.”

Peter dropped his gaze from the man’s face to his books. “Oh, um… just writings by Dr. Bohr.”

“Doctor Bore?” the man cracked a laugh with his companion.

Peter didn’t find it funny. “Doctor  _Bohr_ ,” he enunciated. “Famous physicist.”

“Don’t give a fuck,” the man dismissed. The pleasantries, if could be considered that, were over. “We saw your performance.”

“What performance?”

“In the simulation,” grunted the companion, the scar running jagged on his face twisted into an uglier mask. “Saw that stunt of yours.”

“Not a stunt,” Peter muttered, not comfortable where the conversation was going.

The man in the baseball cap leaned across the table, pushing aside Peter’s books. Peter straightened back, heart hammering against his chest. Now more than ever, he wished he took the mask from the box. If he had his mask, he could hide the fear he was certain he was displaying.

“You know what people are saying right?” the man continued, but Peter shook his head. He was not aware of what everyone talked about. Why would he? No one talked to him about anything. “They’re saying that some punk-ass kid beat our record. That a pre-pubescent _tween_  outsmarted everyone here.”

Peter tried to swallow. He couldn’t. His throat was too dry. “Um… no.”

The two men exchanged looks. Not good looks either. “How’d you do it?” the man demanded. “You cheated, didn’t you?”

Peter shook his head.

The man didn’t believe him. “Don’t fuck with me, kid,” he warned in snarl. “I don’t like people who fuck me over and get the glory. You understand?”

No, he didn’t. Peter stared, unblinkingly, at a loss of what the man accused him of doing. Where was Simon when he truly needed him?

“I don’t think he gets it, champ,” voiced the companion.

“I can see that, Jack-O,” said the man, thoughtfully. Then, he dramatically whipped off his baseball cap, revealing his close-shaved head and a horrible scar dead-center of his forehead. Three rings, all on top of one another to form what looked like a bullseye.

The man’s lips pulled into a high jeer at the sight of Peter’s wide eyes. “You see that scar, huh? Got it from a good friend of mine. Symbolizes my specialty,” he said, sounding cocky and sinister at once. “You see—it’s a bullseye. Because I fucking never miss. Hit my targets every single time. You following, kid?”

Peter thought he dropped a temperature. Was the library ever this cold before?

He stiffly nodded to Bullseye and the man continued. “Good—because my second specialty is making things look like accidents,” he added and Peter restrained every muscle in his body from not jumping up to the ceiling to escape them. “And teenage punks do a lot of stupid stuff. Stuff that can break necks—”

“What do you want?” Peter was tired of the threats.

The two seemed happy that they were getting his full cooperation now. “We want you to tell us how you fucking beat the simulation,” ground out Jack-O. “You see, our team had a good streak going on until a spider came along. Ruined our reputation. Ruined our good names.”

Peter didn’t realized he did that. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean to cause you guys any problems.”

“Apology accepted once you tell us how you did it,” Bullseye seethed through his hardened jaw. “Now, fucking tell us how you did it and you can go on your merry way.”

“Um… I was just,” Peter didn’t know how to explain it to them. “You have to get the materials in the simulation and format—”

“No you little fucker,” Bullseyes shut Peter up. “I want to know how the fuck you rigged the simulation. How you fucking stopped the bomb from going off.”

“I didn’t stop it from going off,” Peter remembered it exploding underneath him as he secured the final piece of his design. “It blew up. I just built a container that the bomb couldn’t penetrate. You just need—”

A hand snatched the collar of Peter’s shirt, dragging him out of his chair and over a part of the desk. “Okay, pipsqueak,” Bullseyes growled, “You ain’t wanna tell us. Fine. We can got about this another way.”

Bullseye took Peter’s pencil, holding the sharp end up. He pressed it against Peter’s cheek, just a few centimeters underneath Peter’s eye. The lead tip pinched the fine skin and Peter did his best to not flinch at the pain. Or at the fear.

The pencil slid a little further upward. “Start talking,  _Spidey_ ,” warned Jack-O, grinning in evil delight to which Peter noticed the man was missing teeth, “or else he’s going to hit his target.”

Peter pulled back, but Bullseye’s hand snapped around Peter’s head, keeping him in place. Peter freaked. He felt the pencil sliding closer and closer to his eyes that he was afraid a single jerk would result in a puncture to his iris.

“I-I… I w-wanna… I-I…” He uttered nonsense, unable to focus what he needed to tell them with the threat of a pencil right on top of his eye.

Peter’s heart was practically in his mouth when another hand shot out from somewhere, twisting Bullseye’s hand in a strong grip until the guy cried out. Both the pencil and Peter were released.

Peter fell, hitting his chair, but toppling to the floor. Stunned, he heard a harsh, but grave voice above him, yelling at Bullseye and Jack-O. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the newcomer with jet black hair snapped at the two. “Fucking terrorizing a kid?  _Stark’s kid_? Are you fucking out of your mind? You wanna be sent to the hole? Because that’s where you’re heading!”

“We were only just messing—” Bullseye attempted to speak, but the newcomer shut him down quick.

“Get the fuck out!” he bellowed. “Now! And I don’t wanna see you fucking with this kid anymore! Got it! Go!”

Peter heard chairs screech back before hurried feet faded into the silence. He hadn’t moved where he fallen. Too afraid and uncertain what to do. He thought of crawling away, moving underneath another desk and possibly calling out for Mr. Stark to come and help him. But, he rejected that idea. He stayed where he fell as the newcomer rotated back to him.

“You all right there, son?”

Peter blinked up at the man. He had dark skin, pitch black hair and a hideous ‘M’ scar over his right eye. But his face softened as he stretched out a helping hand to Peter. “Here—let me help you back up.”

The man pulled him back onto his feet and held Peter for a few seconds as Peter steadied himself. “You okay?” he asked again, checking Peter over. “They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

Peter shook his head. “They didn’t.”

“Good,” the man was pleased to hear. “I’m Bishop, by the way. Leader of Shadow Company.”

Peter never heard of Bishop, but he heard of Shadow Company. Mr. Reynolds was always ranting or rambling about how better Shadow Company was compared to their little group. Mr. Reynolds made it a goal to beat that team, developing this idea that Shadow Company were their rivals.

Realizing he was quiet longer than polite society demanded, Peter gave the man a gracious nod, “I’m Peter.”

Bishop smiled knowingly. “Yes, I know,” he said. “You are quite the talk around the Compound.”

“I am?” Peter hadn’t heard anything from anyone. His own teammates hardly talked to him. “I didn’t know that.”

Bishop chuckled. “Yes, you’re stellar performance in the simulation has caught a lot of people’s attention,” he said to Peter. “Unfortunately, that includes the bad people too. I apologize for my men’s harassment against you. Their egos are extremely fragile. They all took it hard when they learned we were beaten by a boy.”

“I didn’t do it to beat anyone.”

“I know,” Bishop said, calmly as to not poke Peter further. “I know. You did it because you want to save everyone.”

“H-How did you—”

“I’m not an idiot, Mr. Parker,” Bishop chuckled at Peter’s stunned expression. “I know a good soul when I see one.”

Peter's face burned and he averted his eyes in some desperate hope that Bishop may vanish if he didn't look. Peter pretended to be engrossed with his messy desk. Books fallen over, papers torn and bent, and his pencil lost somewhere. He was fine with it being lost.

Even after the long pause, Peter still felt the heavy presence of Bishop. Could still feel the man's dark orbs burrowing right on him. Peter needed to say something. Was he supposed to thank him? Apologize? What did the man want? “Um... err, sorry for—”

Bishop grabbed Peter’s shoulder and squeezed, hard and firm to silence him. He gave another squeeze to get Peter to look back to him. “Don’t ever apologize for being attack, son,” he ordered. “That’s not how one should live.”

Then, his eyes bounced to the side, distracted by something. He loosened his grip and slid his hand off Peter. “You studying Bohr?”

Peter nodded.

Bishop smiled. His sharp, pearly white teeth reminded Peter of a wolf. “A great mind,” he commented, picking up one of the journals. “You must also have a similar mind if you’re reading this during your free time.”

“I like to learn,” was all Peter said.

That made the older man laugh. “Good, very good,” he commented. “You know—if you enjoy learning, I’ll be more than happy to teach you a few defense techniques. Like the one I did on Lester.”

“Lester?”

“Bullseye! Lester! Whatever name he wants to be known as,” Bishop rolled his eyes at the absurdity of all the made-up, superhero names. “I can teach you a few things. That way you don’t have to let a pencil get into those puppy dog eyes of yours.”

Peter instinctively blinked, recalling the feel of lead rising up to his exposed eye. “Um… I don’t know,” he said. “Mr. Reynolds probably wouldn’t—”

“He doesn’t have to know,” Bishop said, leaning down and then whispering, “It can be our little secret.  _Mister_  Reynolds’ pride gets in the way of many fine teachings. A curious intellect shouldn’t be ruined by another’s pride and ego, am I correct?”

Not wrong, but Peter’s gut was still unsettled. “I don’t get much free time.”

“Doesn’t have to be a daily thing. Could start as a weekly session. Hour tops?” Bishop suggested and then he put a reassuring hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Think it over, son. And don’t worry about Reynolds. I promise I won’t say a word.”

Still uncertain, Peter promised he would think over the offer. Bishop helped Peter clean his desk and once again, told him it was a pleasure to meet the famous Spider-Man. Peter stayed in the library for a few more minutes after Bishop departed before he sprinted back to his bedroom.

He lunged over the headboard of his bed, snatching the pair of web-shooters from their hiding spot. He latched the web-shooters to his wrist and heard the machine wiring up, coming alive as the red light blinked.

Peter breathed a little easier. He fell against the headboard, relieved at the sense of security the web-shooters brought him. His morning had gone so well at the beginning and then ruined upon the third hour. He hadn’t expected to be confronted, threatened or offered additional training. The experience of it all frightened him, leaving him feeling vulnerable in a place full of dangerous individuals. His sanctuary was no longer safe. Perhaps even his bedroom was not safe. People could be waiting. Right outside the doors.

A loud smack on his door startled Peter. His spidey-sense didn’t warn him and he leapt to his feet, standing right on his mattress as the door slid open. He slid his sleeves down and over his web-shooters.

“What are you doing?” Mr. Reynolds marched into his room, looking up at Peter with an odd expression on his face. “Get down! Now!”

Peter dropped down from the bed. “Sor—.”

“Did you lose track of time?” Mr. Reynolds grilled him. “We got tactical training! Everyone else is already there. Except you!”

Peter wasn’t aware of the time. Nor did he get to. Mr. Reynolds roughly grabbed his shoulder and steered him out of the bedroom. “I thought we were passed all this,” the man grumbled. “Done with all the nonsense!”

Peter thought so too. Guess they were both wrong.

* * *

Tactical training wasn’t something Peter enjoyed.

Mr. Reynolds divided their team in two, with each group being commissioned a squad leader. The objective was to capture the other team’s token, i.e. some random object Mr. Reynolds deemed to be important for the purpose of the training. Once captured, they must return it to Mr. Reynolds, only then would they succeed.

Basically, a game of capture the flag. With more violence.

They were allowed to do whatever was necessary to protect or steal the token. Objects like staffs, bean bags and other non-lethal weapons were scattered around the arena, The only exception was they could do no permanent damages or kill. So, broken hand? Fine. Broken neck? No go. They all had to wear these special vests. If the enemy hit the target on the vest, they were considered dead.

Peter only ever had to two of these with teammates. His first time, he hardly remembered it. Powers jumped him and smashed his head into a wall. He woke with Mr. Reynolds beside him, telling Peter to count and asked him these easy questions to answer. The second time around, Peter didn’t participate. Mr. Reynolds wanted him to watch instead to get the idea and purpose of it. Peter only saw a fight that resembled those teenage movies where the bully and protagonist start a riot in the cafeteria. The third time, Peter did a lot better. He managed to get into enemy territory before Silk Fever burned his arm and hit the target on his vest, affectively killing him. The burns were only first degree, but Peter laid up in the medical wing for a few hours to help reduce it while his healing factor took care of the rest.

All three instances made Peter hate tactical training. Yet, he found himself teamed up with Jack as squad leader and Silk Fever as second. The other team had Luke Cage, Lady Deathstrike and Powers.

Jack left Silk Fever to guard their token while, he and Peter ventured out to find the enemy’s precious object. Peter followed up with Jack, checking their backs occasionally as trained. No one spotted yet, but any moment, Peter expected his spidey-sense to spike and then be bombarded by metal claws and/or robust muscles.

None of that happened yet and Jack made the horrible decision to split up. Peter was to go right on his own and Jack to the left. Had the man ever seen a horror film? Never split a group up. That was how the killer picks them off.

But Jack was in charge and Peter was not. Do as told. Go with the plan.

Peter trudged along, eyes shifting side to side. His spidey-sense hummed. Low, but it kept Peter on his toes and alert. They cannot kill him, Peter reminded himself. But they could hurt. Hurt him like hell. Powers would love that.

Peter’s fingers brushed against his web-shooters. The unseen weapon no one knew about. The weapon Mr. Reynolds would certainly steal from him if he learned Peter had them on. Peter tugged his sleeves further down. Don’t use unless necessary.

Rather than follow up the path, Peter grabbed the side of the wall and hoisted himself to the top. Balanced, he tight-roped down the wall, sliding his feet down as he studied the floor below him. He didn’t see anyone. All camouflage or hidden amongst the objects. Albeit, they probably could see him. He stood out being on top.

Peter slowly descended off the wall, flipping off onto a crate and landing with no sound. Expert sleuth in process. He glided around the corner, checking his points and staying crouched. Spiders could move unseen, stick to corners, and listen and watch, waiting for their prize to fall right into their web.

Although, Peter wasn’t an actual spider nor would he make such a big web that would cause trouble for him. He imagined Mr. Reynolds would take away his web-shooters. Maybe even break them. It would be hard to explain to Mr. Stark how he lost the web-shooters.

Peter followed his gut and turned the corner.

And skidded to a halt. He could not believe it. Not at all.

There, laying unprotected, was the other team’s token. Unguarded and left in the open, easy for to grab and run back to Mr. Reynolds.

But it couldn’t be that easy. Peter checked around him. Nothing. He saw no one and spotted no signs of a booby trap. Someone must have left their post.

Peter lifted his foot forward—

Click.

_Shit_!

Peter dropped, taking a squat as he held his breath. He waited. Listened. Eyes searched in front of him. His spidey-sense tickling his skin, prickling the hairs.

Danger afoot. Trouble coming his way.

_Shit_!

Peter waddled in his squat position to a different area, hiding behind one of the boards. Back pressed, he breathed deeply as he tried to think of a new plan. He prayed it was Luke. He wanted it to be Luke rather than Powers of Lady Deathstrike.

Or Jack, coming to find him after stupidly splitting away. Both of them coming up to the prize together.

It was not in his cards.

A spike of fear and a scream in his ears alerted Peter to drop. He slipped his feet off and fell onto his stomach in time to avoid being hit with a bean bag.

“Damn it!” came the screeching fury that belonged to only one person.

Powers.

_Double shit_!

Peter army crawled fast, keeping himself low to the ground as to not be spotted by Powers. He heard the man’s stomp his way to Peter’s last location, swiping up the discarded bean bag. “Where the fuck are you, bitty baby?”

He crawled along the floor, interweaving through the maze of walls. Loud footsteps gained on him and Peter quickly rolled off, hiding behind one of the walls a shadow filled the space he once preoccupied.

The floor creaked. Peter’s heart thumped louder despite his attempt to quiet it down. He held his breath, listening and watching the shadow grow bigger. A loom threat upon him.

“You hiding, Spider-Boy? Afraid are ya?” Powers cackled, smacking the walls he came across. Probably an attempt to get Peter to yelp and reveal his hideout. “No longer running high off that victory in the simulation, huh? Just you and me now, pal. Come on out! Let’s play ball!”

Peter tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. He moved down the wall, back pressed as he scooted away from the growing shadow. Why did it have to be Powers? Peter figured he would want to charge right into the fray and steal the token than stand guard.

The steps softened. “The itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the water spout,” Powers hauntingly intoned as he prowled after him. “Then down came the rain—"

Peter heard a loud snap and something heavy slam into the ground. It rattled Peter's bones for a second. It rattled Peter's heart longer.

"Come on out, Spidey," Powers purred with a dangerous rumble. "You know... Luke had this whole plan out, but I figured I should take a page out of your book. Just burn it all down and do what I want.”

Was Powers insane? It baffled Peter why Powers hated him so much. Peter never did anything to him, but Powers insisted on terrorizing him. He went out of his way to make Peter’s life miserable, enjoying himself on the torment.

The footsteps stopped moving. The shadow was gone.

Oh no.

His spidey-sense screamed and without thought, Peter launched himself out of his hideaway, rolling into a somersault as the wall collapsed behind him. The ground shook a bit and Powers stomped over the fallen wall, glaring down at Peter’s balled form.

“And washed the spider out!” Powers squealed in utter excitement. “Hey there, itsy bitsy!”

Peter shot up and ran, but Powers gave chase, chucking the bean bags right at Peter’s feet to get him to trip. Peter bounced, using his parkour tricks to dodge the attempts, but Powers was relentless.

“You can’t run!” roared Powers.

_Don’t know about that_ , Peter drily thought,  _I think I’m running all right_.

He swung around the corner, looking where to go when he spotted a tunnel poking out from the far wall up top. Peter crawled quickly and ducked inside, hiding himself there as he waited for Powers to run passed.

Powers rampaged below, knocking down walls and blindly running in different directions in his attempt to find Peter. “Where are you?” he growled. “Where the fuck are you?!”

Peter stayed low, thinking of ways to get out of his situation. He considered holing up in the tunnel and wait out the training. He doubt Mr. Reynolds would be pleased with his performance, but Peter didn’t find any enjoyment in trying to kill the other team. He was not like Powers.

Suddenly, the tunnel glowed red. Peter went rigid, wondering what was happening when he realized the red hue came from a flash on his web-shooters. Peter quickly tried to cover it up with his sleeve. He didn’t need to signal out his location and lure Powers to him. His sleeves failed to cover up the bright hue, still acting like a beckoning light to his position. Peter tried to find a way to quit it from flashing, smacking his web-shooters everywhere. He hit the buttons, trying to figure out what the repetitive flash meant.

He must have hit something right because the flashes ceased and a beam of red light shot up over Peter’s head. Peter tipped his head back and saw the Spider-man logo. The image of his mask filling the space above him.

The super-hero signal. The call of hope.

Peter lingered on the image. Not long ago, he was the one who wore that mask, swinging through his neighborhood Queens in search of trouble. He engaged in dangerous situations without a second thought like saving people from crushing deaths or stopping thieves from stealing. Or helping lost tourists find their way around the city. Spider-man did all those things. Spider-man never hid up in a tunnel or run from danger. He ran  _toward_ danger. He made the bad guys hide in tunnels.

But… That was Spider-man.  _He_  was Peter Parker. A teenager locked up in a Compound because some government agency said so. A boy with no mask to hide from, exposed to cruel and authoritative trainers who pressured him to abuse his responsibility as an enhanced individual. And Peter didn’t have his mask to shield the scared boy from his enemies. He could not banish the fearful child, who wanted his aunt and uncle. Peter was exposed and Spider-man became a fraud. A mockery.

“ _Down came the rain, and washed the spider out_.”

Powers was sung away below, searching. And Peter stayed up, thinking.

He remembered his uncle and the old stories he told Peter when bullies beat up on him in elementary school and middle school. He cheered Peter up with tales of heroes, and how a little man once became the world’s greatest hero by sticking it to the biggest bully. Peter recalled it all with a fond memory: _“But Uncle Ben, I’m nothing like Captain America. I’m me._ ”

He remembered his uncle’s smile. “ _And what do you think he was? A hero is no different than an ordinary person, Petey. They are just braver for five minutes longer. You’re a good kid. You’re well-loved. And one day, you will be someone who changes the world. Start by not running from your bullies, but standing up for yourself.”_

Peter wasn’t Captain America or Iron Man or any of the other Avengers. He never faced down an alien. He never dealt with a secret, evil organization intent on destroying the good of the world. But none of that made him less. It didn’t make any of his problems less real or problematic.

Peter Parker wasn’t one of the heroes he grew up on. He was Spider-man. He was also Peter Parker.

One of the same. And now, he had to be brave for five minutes longer.

He zapped the light off. The masked symbol evaporated, leaving Peter in the dark. He sucked up a deep breath, listening as Powers got closer to where Peter crouched in the tunnel. The man was still singing that stupid nursery rhyme.

“ _The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout,_ ” Powers sang, sounding worse and louder. “ _Down came the rain, and washed the spider out. Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain_ —”

Powers was right below and Peter took another deep breath, before he reminded himself to not be afraid. He was Spider-man. Spider-man wasn’t afraid to stand up to bullies.

He jumped. And dropped down in a smooth landing right in front of Powers.

Powers whistled. “And the itsy bitsy spider crawls out again!” he jeered, tossing the bean bags up in the air. A power show. A demonstration that he was armed and unafraid to fire. “Thought I was going to have to find you and stomp you down for good.”

Powers stepped forward, but Peter stood his ground. No more running. No more hiding.

Powers noticed the rigid stance. “Oh. Oh I see,” he said with that horrible wicked smile. “You wanna show how tough you are? You wanna prove to me that you aren’t afraid, is that it? Well, itsy bitsy, you’re not pulling it off. You look like you shit in your pants five times.”

Peter shook his head. “I’m not proving anything,” he said. “I’m giving you the chance to walk away.”

Powers stared for a minute. Then his whole body broke out in a cackle of laughter. He shook his head wildly as he curled over himself, trying to stomach the cramps his feverish laughter brought upon him.

“You?” he choked up through his cackles. “You’re giving me the chance? Wow! How hard did you hit your head?” He shook his head again, trying to subdue his last bits of giggles. “Well—that’s certainly something I’ll tell the guys later. Anyway, going to make a strong pass. And also, since we are giving each other warnings—this will hurt.”

Powers chucked his first bean bag right at Peter’s chest. It shot straight through the air, but Peter’s agility and fast reflexes made it easy to dodge it. In fact, he caught it with his hand.

Powers laughter swiped down, eyebrows bushing forward into a sharp ‘V’. “Fuck you,” he said. “I’m going to wipe your ass!”

He fired away, throwing each bean bag at full throttle. It was no match to Peter. He caught them all with relative ease and graceful movements. A subtle snub directed to Powers for his boorish fighting skills.

But now, Peter held all the bean bags and Powers had nothing. Peter had the weapon and the strength to “kill” Powers. Eliminate him from the game.

Peter looked from the bean bags to Powers’ reddening face. He let the bean bags slip to the floor.

Powers’ eyes narrowed. “What the fuck you playing at, itsy bitsy?”

“Actually,” Peter said, lifting his arms up to roll his sleeves down. His fingers touched the web-shooters, activating it. “It’s Spider-Man.”

Peter took aim. He fired.

Two strings of web shot out at Powers’ direction. The man cried out in surprise as the webs latched onto the boundary wall behind him. “What the hell?” Powers exclaimed in madness. “What the hell is this stuff?”

Peter gripped the webs and reclined at a perfect angle. He jumped from the ground and yanked the webs, sending himself like a bullet right into Powers. His shoes hit right on target, making a great impact into Powers’ chest that the man was thrown off his feet and slammed into the wall.

Peter cut loose of the webbing and watched Powers scramble to get back on his feet, half dazed and half confused about how he ended up on the floor. When his eyes locked on Peter’s, the humor he had earlier was gone. Replaced with that familiar furor.

In his clear embarrassment, Powers charged at him. Peter zapped out another webbing at Powers’ feet and watched the white string loop around Powers’ ankles into a knot. Powers flailed as he lost balance, tripping down and smacking his chin hard on the floor.

He groaned and cursed, pushing himself back up. Bewildered by the substance, Powers tried to hack it off him, but to no avail. “What the fuck is this shit!?” he roared as he kept getting his fingers stuck on the webbing. “Why is it sticky?”

“Never heard of spider-webs before?” Peter replied. “All spiders have it.”

That pissed Powers off. He lunged at Peter, not caring that his feet were glued together and his balance off. He aimed to punch Peter in the face and Peter reacted accordingly. He extended his hand and shot out two globs of webbing at Powers. It hit both hands, webbing him up against the wall.

Powers growled and grunted as he used up all his strength to pull himself free. It was futile. The webbing was too strong for Powers. He truly reminded Peter of a bug caught in a spider’s web.

“Stay,” Peter ordered, pleased with the victory. “Don’t go anywhere.”

Peter heard Powers snarl, “Fuck you,” he snapped. “You fucking cheate—”

Peter shot off another string of web and smothered Powers’ words to garble the utter nonsense. Much better.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Peter advised as he walked away from powers to return to the podium that was up ahead.

The token was still there, ready for the taking. Peter picked it up from its position and tucked it inside his vest. Secured, he went back to where Powers, grunting and groveling in his binds, kept attempting to wiggle himself free.

“It’ll dissolve in three hours,” Peter informed Powers. “I would help, but you're a bad guy. So, use this time to reflect on your horrible life choices.”

Peter raised his hand, took aim and fired off a strand of webbing. It fastened to the ceiling. “See ya later!”

And Peter was off. Soaring in the air as he swung over the arena. It somewhat reminded him of Queens, swinging over things and having that sense of excitement bubbling up his chest. The thrill and sense of freedom as he swung around on his webbings. It was amazing to feel it all over again. Even if it was for a short period of time.

Peter arrived at the front of the arena. He let go of his last strand of web and flipped down right next to Mr. Reynolds. The leader was stunned, tensed for a split second as he was unable to recognize who swooped right next to him from the ceiling.

Peter reached his hand into his vest and revealed the stolen token. “Got it,” he announced. “It’s done.”

Mr. Reynolds stared at the object in Peter’s hand and then back to Peter. A spark of bewilderment froze his face, his eyes bulging a bit at Peter. Almost like the man couldn't believe what he was seeing. Peter lifted the token up, leveling it to Mr. Reynolds' face to show it was all real. It made the man blink and recoil, hesitant to touch the token. But, as the seconds ticked on, Mr. Reynolds recovered from his surprise and took the token from Peter. He turned it, examining it to check it was not a fake. 

Mr. Reynolds rolled his eyes down from the token to Peter. "Well done," he commended, tone devoid of emotion. "Let’s call everyone back."

Once he announced the session was over and ordered everyone to return, Mr. Reynolds' eyes glittered to Peter's wrist. Curiosity lit those strange eyes before they squinted into a questionable scrutiny.

"What are those?" he inquired, studying Peter’s web-shooters with peculiar disapproval. And a smidge of vexation.

Peter remained calm. "My web-shooters."

"Web-shooters?" Mr. Reynolds susceptibly raised a brow at the objects. "Don't remember web-shooters being a part of the arena. Where did you get them?"

Peter instinctively yanked his sleeves down over the web-shooters. "They're mine."

"I don't remember you ever having a pair," Mr. Reynolds drawled, muscles in his face tightening. A dark cloud fluttered over Mr. Reynolds’ face. "Tell the truth, Mr. Parker—where did you get them?"

The team started to reappear, some jogging and others sauntering into the foyer. They all glanced at one another, trying to decipher who won, until they noticed the token in Mr. Reynolds' hands.

"Yes!" Jack screamed in victory, pumping his fists up. "Champions! Ha!"

No one paid attention to Jack though. They recognized the tension between Peter and Mr. Reynolds. The scolding glare was enough entertainment for them. Another beat show where Peter got lectured and scolded for whatever childish behavior he conducted. They stayed back to watch, waiting with anticipation as to what Peter did this time around. What rule did he break? What did he do wrong?

Peter waited for the same accusation. And the consequence for it.

Mr. Reynolds huffed, not impressed with Peter’s stoic defiance. He stretched his hand out, demanding the web-shooters. “Hand them over.”

Peter shook his head.

That only angered Mr. Reynolds. “Mr. Parker—I will not tolerate anymore disobedience from you today,” he seethed through gritted teeth. “Give me those web-thingys, _now_ , or I will be forced to use extreme measures, which I am certain you don’t want.”

He was going to shock him, send electric currents through him until he passed out. “I’m not giving them to you,” Peter refused. “They’re mine! Mr. Stark gave them to me.”

That one line changed the entire situation. Mr. Reynolds’ eyes went wide and he scuttle backwards, as if Peter shocked him with an electric prod. He heard soft gasps and mutters from the sidelines where the others watched the face-off.

Mr. Reynolds blinked a few times to recover. “W-What?” he said, still startled. “Mr. Stark gave those to you?”

“He made them for me.”

Mr. Reynolds swiftly move his hands behind his back. “Oh well, then, never mind,” he quickly excused, all the ire squashed out. “Keep them. I didn’t know. Next time, though, you have to let me know.”

And then Mr. Reynolds ignored him, pivoting away to look back to the rest of the team. He disclosed his full report to them, giving an overall idea where they needed to improve. Peter half-listened, still befuddled by the sudden change in tune by Mr. Reynolds.

Was Mr. Reynolds afraid of Mr. Stark? It would explain the man’s sudden change in attitude and his avoidance of Peter at the moment. The man refused to look in his direction at all during the debriefing.

Report finished and the team dismissed for practice later in the evening, Mr. Reynolds searched the crowd with a furrowed brow and a deep frown.

“Anyone see Powers?” he asked the group, scanning the floor for the missing teammate. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Oh!” Peter exclaimed, remembering he left Powers all tied up. “He may, um, be a bit tied up.”

Mr. Reynolds gave him a long look. “Tied up?”

“I webbed him up to one of the walls,” Peter explained, awkwardly after the strange looks from his teammates. “He should be free in a couple of hours. Once the webs dissolve.”

Mr. Reynolds’ eyebrows traveled high up his forehead, somewhat impressed. But it was Jack who was more excited by the prospect of Powers tied into a cocoon. “Holy shit!” he cried out, tapping Luke’s huge arm. “I gotta see this, man. Sorry—excuse me!”

And Jack sprinted back into the arena, on the hunt to find Powers. Luke considered for a few seconds before he shrugged and joined Jack. “Probably will make my week to see that little asshole knotted up.”

Shortly, they all joined after Jack, hunting down Powers to find themselves a good laugh. Mr. Reynolds held a little smile on his face of his own. “Serves the man right,” he commented. “He’s a bit of a pest. Especially toward you.”

He looked down at Peter. “Well done, Mr. Parker,” he said in a rare form of kind words. “Good to see you growing more confident in your talents.”

It was an unexpected compliment. Not unwelcomed, but it surprised Peter enough to scrunch his face in confusion at the gesture. Mr. Reynolds hardly handed out compliments, especially to him. Based off their previous encounters, Peter assumed nothing he did would ever appease the man’s high demands.

Until he claimed victory for his team through the simulation test and now. Until he revealed Mr. Stark gifted him the web-shooters.

Until now.

Mr. Reynolds hummed as his lips curled in the corners and Peter swore he heard the man murmur, “Maybe Stark was right.”

* * *

“… and so I shot a web over his mouth. Smothered it to keep him from talking. He just kept making garbled noises and I said ‘You have the right to remain silent.’ Then I snatched the token right from him. It was  _awesome_ , Mr. Stark! Best moment in my entire life!”

Mr. Stark, who listened to Peter's tale as they walked through the Compound, bobbed his head along before he raised a questionable brow. "Best moment? Really, Mr. Parker?"

Peter shrugged. "Well—one of them, at least," he said. "It felt good to shut that guy up. I mean, Powers can run his mouth forever and ever. He just doesn't shut up and he's annoying and mean and rude and—"

“Powers?" Mr. Stark interrupted with a contemplating murmur. "The same guy who gave you a black eye?”

Peter blinked in shock. "How did you know that?"

“I told you kid," Mr. Stark gestured Peter to turn the corner. "I’ve been looking after you since day one. I heard about the incident when I was away. Got in contact with Nellie and she informed me.”

Peter should have guessed. Mr. Stark would have eyes and ears all over the place, especially with his AI running everything. "Oh. Yeah, well, um, same guy. But this time, I beat him."

"And it was the best moment of your life," Mr. Stark shot him a teased smile.

Peter scrunched up his face in retort. "Okay, sorry, it wasn't like I kicked ass against, like, the Hulk or Thor, but he was my bully," he said, proudly. "And... it's a big deal to me."

“Wasn't belittling it, kid," Mr. Stark replied, opening another door. "So—web-shooters work on humans as well as walls and ceilings.”

Peter nodded. "Yeah and, honestly, I thought Mr. Reynolds was going to be pissed as well. He asked for them, but when I said you gave them to me—”

“Oh? Name dropping, huh?”

“He asked!”

Mr. Stark skeptically hummed, a hint of a smile picking up his face as they strolled down the corridor. Peter had no idea where they were going. Mr. Stark intercepted him on the way to the library and told Peter to tag along with him. He hoped it was an update about the Accords and that he was getting close to freeing Peter back to his aunt. So far, Mr. Stark made no comment on it. He was only interested in Peter's day, asking how it went, to which Peter obliged by telling him the incident with Powers a few days ago. 

They were walking through another floor Peter had never seen. Hardly anyone was around, leaving the corridors empty and unattended. Peter tried to peek inside any open doors he came across, but most of them appeared to be offices, lounges or empty rooms. Nothing at all fascinating. No labs or workshops. Nothing. When Tony snatched him after his school lessons, Peter thought it was something to do with his release. Something with the Accords and it being pivotal in returning him to his family.

“So, um, Mr. Stark? What exactly—”

“Tones!”

The loud shout carried from one end of the corridor to where they stopped. Mr. Stark whirled on his feet as did Peter, looking at a man who fast approached them. 

The man's strides were quick and long with somewhat of an awkward gait from the set of braces attached to both legs. Posture perfect, head tilted up and eyes pointed right at Mr. Stark. Peter instantly recognized him. Colonel James Rhodes, member of the Avengers team as War Machine and a colonel in the United States army. More commonly known as Mr. Stark's best friend. 

“Tony!" he grilled coming up to an abrupt attention in front of them. "Why aren't you answering your calls?! I have Secretary—”

“Rhodey!" Mr. Stark burst, gesturing his arms up in a welcoming manner. "I have someone I want you to meet.”

Mr. Stark's hand landed right on Peter's shoulder and pushed forward to Col. Rhodes. "Rhodey? Meet the kid," he announced. "Kid—Rhodey."

Peter tried not to look small under Colonel Rhodes' perplexed glare. He swallowed the uncomfortableness and stretched his hand out to shake. "It's, um, Peter," he corrected on Mr. Stark’s behalf. "Peter Parker."

It took a few seconds for Colonel Rhodes's brain to recover from his stupor. He took Peter's hand and shared a strong handshake. "James Rhodes," he returned. "Pleasure to meet you. Are you Tony's... intern?"

Peter darted a look from Col. Rhodes to Mr. Stark. "Um... no. I'm—"

“Somewhat," Mr. Stark intercepted, clapping his hand on Peter’s shoulder followed with a tight squeeze. "Was impressed with his mechanical eye. You know how I am. Gotta find the best and brightest before others do.”

Peter looked back at Mr. Stark with deep, quizzical brows, bunched close in fickle confusion. Mr. Stark never said anything about being an intern. When Mr. Stark caught Peter’s confused gaze, he threw out a wink to him. Go with it. 

So, Peter closed his mouth and nodded to Mr. Stark's fib.

Col. Rhodes looked impressed, but shrewd as he glared a little longer at Mr. Stark. Probably already aware of Mr. Stark’s deception. “You must be a smart kid,” Rhodes said to Peter after a moment. “Let me know if this old fellow gets difficult or if he’s being a pain in the ass. Mostly if he’s being a pain in the ass. Okay?”

“Don’t scare off my intern,” Mr. Stark huffed. “You make it sound like I’m the one that turns into a raging green monster.”

“You occasionally do.”

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes. “Okay, Rhodey, the kid and I have places to be,” he said, tugging on Peter's arm to steer him away from his old friend. “So—”

Rhodes looked peeved at Mr. Stark’s dismissal. "Actually, Tones, I came because I need to discuss something with you. Privately,” he quickly added after a darted look to Peter.

“Another time.”

“It’s important.”

“Everything is important.”

“I’m telling you this is,” Rhodes insisted, but Mr. Stark was hardly listening to him. Already, Peter found himself slowly walking again as Mr. Stark pulled him along. Rhodes hurried after him. “You cannot ignore them," he said, being cryptic to keep Peter in the dark. "If you don't respond—"

“He'll what?" challenged Mr. Stark, not slowing his pace. "C'mon Rhodey! What's he going to do? He can use all the words he knows, but it won't change my damn mind. If he wants to show up with his army, then by all means! I’ll be here.

“In the meantime, my answer is a severe no” Mr. Stark stated and he called for the elevator, before looking back at Col. Rhodes. “My terms only. Tell him that.”

Col. Rhodes sighed in exasperation as if dealing with a toddler than a grown-up. "I'm not going to play the messenger."

“Funny," Mr. Stark deadpanned. "You just were for him.”

Col. Rhodes’ shoulders hunched, leaving his mouth agape in astonished disbelief at the sheer ridiculous he confronted. His tired eyes slid down to Peter, again looking at him with speculation and wonderment. Peter tried to back away from the rift between the two friends. Not that there was a big rift, but Mr. Stark made it clear he was not in the mood to deal with whatever Col. Rhodes deemed as important. But from the sheer urgency in the man’s eyes, Peter truly believed it to be important.

Peter glanced up to Mr. Stark. “Maybe you should hear him out, Mr. Stark?” he suggested. “It could be important.”

Mr. Stark’s mouth pinched, shaking his head. “Not important.”

“If it’s about the Accords—”

“It  _is_ ,” added Col. Rhodes, although he was taken aback by Peter’s knowledge of it.

Excitement fluttered within him. A skip to his walk. “Mr. Stark! It could be about letting—”

“It’s not,” grunted Tony, his word sending Peter straight back down. “Trust me, kid. It has nothing to do with any of that.”

“But—”

The elevator dinged and opened. Mr. Stark practically tossed Peter inside before he addressed Col. Rhodes. “I’m never going to agree to his terms. If he wants my cooperation, then it’s on my terms only.”

Col. Rhodes huffed out a deep sigh. “Better tell him yourself.”

“Oh—I already have,” Mr. Stark responded and he waved a farewell salute to his friend just as the elevator doors closed. “Son of a bitch…” he muttered, taking out his phone and working quickly on it. “Sorry about all that, short stuff. Adult things.”

“You mean the Accords thing,” Peter grumbled, crossing his arms. He found it incredulous that Mr. Stark would avoid taking phone calls with the man who was keeping Peter away from his aunt. “I thought you said you were going to fix it.”

Mr. Stark arched a brow in Peter’s direction. “I am.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

Mr. Stark stopped messing with his phone. He twirled it and slipped back into his pocket. “Maybe from your point of view,” he said with a weary gruff. “But from my end, I’m doing a hell of a lot.”

“Then why did you ignore Col. Rhodes?” Peter countered, hurt that Mr. Stark dismissed something that could have brought him a step closer to his aunt. “He said it was important and maybe it was. Maybe the UN came up with a compromise?”

Mr. Stark barked out a cruel laugh. “Compromise? Doubt it. No… I already know what Rhodey was going to tell me.”

“But you don’t know—”

“Actually, I do. Because I already heard their proposition. Multiple times,” Mr. Stark answered. “Through emails, voice messages and a handful of them were actual threats—but I’m not going to give that man anything. I’m sorry if it feels like I am sabotaging your chances to be reunited with your aunt, but I can’t let Secretary Ross get his hands on my AI programming. Otherwise, what’s the point of letting you go with your aunt. You will never fully be free if he has my AI.”

Peter’s eyes got wider and his mouth dropped. “Wait… they want your AI?”

“They want a version of it,” Mr. Stark replied, taking in a deep breath. Eyes a bit distant, but only for a second. “They agreed to adjust the Accords to allow better accommodations for enhanced individuals, but only if I hand them the specs of my AI.

“I couldn’t, in good conscience, do that, so… fuck them,” Mr. Stark said with a crooked smile, rather pleased by his crude sense of rebellion. “Threw out my terms and refused to budge. That’s why they keep calling and sending messengers. They want me to give in, but I won’t. I won’t let those assholes use my tech to control people.”

Peter’s face flushed with embarrassment. He misjudged and spoke foolishly on something he only half understood. He was an idiot. “Sorry… I didn’t know,” he said. “I just thought you were… I don’t know.”

Mr. Struck shrugged, nonchalant. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t have all the information,” he said, dismissing the apology as unnecessary. “I am working on it though, kid. It’s kind of at a stand-still, but the UN will eventually cave. Already, they tried to use Rhodey to get to me. Soon, they will realize that I have all the balls. Not them.”

Peter nodded. More out of hope than belief. “Yeah, yeah, I was just hoping it would go faster. You know?”

“Things like this take time,” Mr. Stark admitted, drawing his palm down his jawline. “Nothing happens in a snap. Time wins everything in the end. Just be patient. I know it’s not a strong suit from your generation, but hang-in there.”

The elevator slowed to a stop, opening for them to walk out. Mr. Stark sauntered out and Peter followed, expecting to be back in the workshop. He wasn’t.

It was a massive office with a gorgeous view of the entire landscape and beyond! Half of the office was covered in floor to ceiling windows, giving two distinct views of the Compound. The remaining walls had a full-screen television mounted on it, guarded by two bookcases filled with leather-bound books with no titles on the spine. Another wall held a single oil painting – a woman with strawberry blonde hair, looking away, but one could notice the hint of green in what looked to be an eye.

“It’s a Liviu Mihai.”

Peter turned away from the painting to Mr. Stark. “A what?”

Mr. Stark gestured to the painting. “Mihai is a great artist. Had this portrait commissioned for her birthday,” he explained, but it only left Peter more lost than before. “I wanted it framed in the house, but she insisted on having it here.”

“W-Who?”

“Pepper Potts,” Mr. Stark answered. “My fiancé.”

Peter scolded himself. Of course, now he recognized the woman in the painting. Pepper Potts. The leading CEO in the global tech world. First woman to power up Stark Industries and leading it through the treacherous days of Iron Man. Peter recalled Michelle Jones admiring the woman’s business prowess.

“Cost me ten thousand dollars, but worth it,” Mr. Stark said heading to the opposite side of the office where a drink cart was station. “I would offer you something to drink, but all I have here for you is ice.”

“That’s okay,” Peter said, taking in the rest of the office. The desk up front was different than the one in the workshop. It had a black glass surface, uncluttered with only a computer, leather notebook and a framed photograph that Peter could not see the photograph that filled it.

Mr. Stark poured himself some kind of drink and went over to the desk, bending down to grab something from a drawer. He tucked a folder underneath his arm and moved to little sitting room that was in front of the television. He gestured Peter to join him.

Peter sat, but kept looking around him, not understanding why he was up in this private office.

“Probably wondering why I brought you here,” Mr. Stark said, dropping the folder beside him on the couch. “I wanted to formally hire you.”

Peter faltered, unsure if he heard correctly. “Hire me?”

“As an intern.”

Peter paused. “I thought that was a lie to Col. Rhodes?”

“Not a lie,” Mr. Stark said. “I actually do want you to be an intern for me. You’re young, smart and talented. Need those around here if Stark Industries wants to keep moving into the future.”

“Wait… you want me as an intern for Stark Industries?” Peter thought his reality was breaking apart. It had to be a joke. Or a dream. Either or. This was not real.

“What other intern would there be?” Mr. Stark asked, humored by Peter’s statement. “My plan would be to have you up in the workshop with me two days a week. Work on a few projects and have you look over some coding and specs. Something for you to occupy your time while I fight the UN on your behalf.”

Peter tried to compute everything that was thrown at him. “But… I don’t know how I would do that?” Already, his days were set on a rotating schedule. He hardly even had much of recreation time to rest. How could he tack on an internship?

“Do what? The internship? Easy—instead of spending hours in the library, you will spend those hours in the workshop. Learn from the master,” Mr. Stark pointed at himself to indicate that he was the master. “Look—there is so much you can learn from reading, but eventually, you got to put it into practical use and not just theoretical use.

“I figured you would find this internship more invigorating and educational than just sitting at that desk of yours and reading what all these great scientists and engineers did,” Mr. Stark said. “Especially when I know you could be doing great things if given the chance. So… I’m giving you that chance. What do you say?”

Peter didn’t know what to say. Speechless, he never thought of himself as someone who could be great. He never even compared himself to Bohr or Stark or Feynman. They were his heroes. And he was nothing but a civilian compared to them.

Mr. Stark titled his head, a frown growing in concern. “You okay? Did you hear anything I said?”

Peter managed to stiffly nod. “Yeah, I, um, just… trying to get my head wrapped around it,” he confessed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You want me as an intern?”

“Yep.”

“For Stark Industries?”

Another confirmed nod.

“But I’m fifteen.”

Mr. Stark snorted up a laugh, falling back into the couch as he laid a hand chest. “Jesus—are you seriously trying to find ways to not take this internship? Is this your version of declining it?”

“No, no, no,” Peter said, not trying to sound ungrateful. “I’m confused. I mean… I’m a teenager.”

“Age is not a measure of wisdom,” Mr. Stark said, recovering from his chuckles. “Hell—I was fifteen when I went into MIT. Fifteen year olds can be just as smart as adults. And you, kid, are smart as hell. The fact that you developed that web fluid with a few school chemicals and those web-shooters from the dump tells me you are far smarter than my whole team at Stark Industries. I know a genius when I see one. I know talent when I see it. You got both kid. And, I want to help you along that path. That’s why I am offering you the position.

“So… you want it or am I wasting my time?” Mr. Stark asked.

Peter sucked in a deep breath, ducking his head as to think in private. He didn’t need Mr. Stark’s intense gaze to freak him out. He thought over the offer. It was a great opportunity. He could put it on his resume, look good on college applications and it would allow him to have a hands-on approach to some of the world’s best technology. Plus, with Mr. Stark as a mentor, he was certain to learn everything he ever wanted to know.

It would be a stupid to reject the offer. Very stupid.

Peter started to nod.

“Is that a yes?” Mr. Stark questioned for a confirmation.

“Yes,” Peter blurted, but quickly shut his mouth as his voice carried loud in the spacious office. He swallowed, trying to contain his enthusiasm better. “I’ll do the internship.”

“Great!” Mr. Stark clapped, looking rather pleased with Peter’s decision. He whipped the folder off the couch beside him and handed it off to Peter. “These are just basic documents you need to look over and sign. Just the usual business stuff. And, I also added your first assignment.”

Mr. Stark pulled out a packet from the back end of the folder. “This here is a design model for a drone,” he said. “There’s been a few glitches in the system and I want your input on the solutions.”

Peter eyed the diagram. “You designed this?”

“Oh, hell no,” Mr. Stark said, slightly offended by the insinuation. “My designs don’t have faults. This is another employee’s pet project. They tried to sell it to me, but fell short. Obvious reasons I am sure you will find out. Anyway, that’s your first task.”

“More like a test,” Peter said, flipping through the packet. “See if I know my stuff.”

“See how  _creative_  you can be,” corrected Mr. Stark. “I already know you know your ‘stuff’. I want to see what you can do with it.”

Peter snorted as he closed the packet and looked through the documentations that he needed to read. “What exactly is all of this?” he asked, scanning the titles of each document. “Employee handbook? Personnel? IRS? Wait… am I getting paid?”

“Of course,” Mr. Stark said, casual as if it was normal to pay interns. “Fifty dollars per hour. Plus benefits like stipends for transportation and lunch… but those things are not necessary for you. You don’t need a subway to get there. And lunch is already… are you okay?”

Peter stopped listening to Mr. Stark a while back. His mind distracted by the mere fact he was going to earn fifty dollars an hour. Fifty dollars and hour! Holy—his aunt hardly made thirty dollars an hour for her work. And he’s making… fifty. Fifty dollars an hour. With that income, he and his aunt could afford a better apartment. One with more closet space. Better view of Queens. And less shady neighbors.

Fifty dollars. An hour! That… that was a lot of money. More money than he ever had in his life!

Something waved in front of his face. Peter jumped, startled and searching for an escape, but saw it was only Mr. Stark’s hand, trying to wave him back to reality. “Hey! You there?” Mr. Stark inquired.

“Yeah… yeah. Sorry,” Peter apologized, sitting up and trying to be professional again. “I… are you sure, Mr. Stark?”

“About what?” Mr. Stark was not used to be second guessed by anyone.

“The money.”

“What about the money?”

“It’s a lot.”

“It is?” Mr. Stark’s face scrunched in thought. For Iron Man, fifty dollars was pocket change, but for people like Peter—it was a half month’s worth of groceries. It was a lot of money. And Peter had to be sure.

But Mr. Stark shrugged, not giving a care. “It’s nothing, kid,” he dismissed. “Honestly, I feel like I am underpaying you. I should double it. What about a hundred?”

Peter struggled to not choke on his surprise. “A-A hundred, sir?”

“Two hundred?”

It was getting ridiculous. “Fifty is fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter assured him, hoping it would stop the madness. “I just wanted to make sure. I-I never made that much money before. Neither did my aunt or uncle. It feels like a lot.”

“It’s nothing, Peter,” Mr. Stark promised him. “It’s only fifty dollars an hour. You’re not robbing me blind.”

“I know. I know,” Peter said, suddenly remembering that not only was there a generation gap between him and Mr. Stark, but also a social gap. An economical gap. Peter came up poor. Mr. Stark came up rich. They lived in separate worlds, yet they were sharing this tiny space. “Still… it’s a lot of money. I know it’s not a lot to you, but it is for me. I grew up with very little. Money wasn’t always… available.”

It took him a moment to comprehend, but Mr. Stark clicked it all together. “You don’t have to worry about that,” Mr. Stark reassured Peter, comforting him on the fact he didn’t have to worry about any financial burdens. “All you have to worry about is coming up creative solution to this drone problem, got it?”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said with a growing smile as he pulled the folder onto his lap. “I can do that.”


	14. An Apology for One

It got weird. 

Not a bad weird. Different may be a better way to describe it.

Peter noticed the shift in tone and attitude directed toward him. No longer was he the invisible boy. Instead, he was noticed. Eyes watched him. Murmurs followed him. And all the adults suddenly became interested in him, making an extra effort to be affable and cordial toward him. More people addressed and greeted him than ever, all asking after him. It happened too much that Peter actively tried to go down corridors with less people. 

Mr. Reynolds was one of the bigger changes. He no longer looked at Peter with annoyance or resentment. Instead, he acted in the same manner as he did prior to Peter jumping the fence. He treated Peter with sympathetic kindness and was far more protective over him, staying close and ensuring that he never teamed up with Powers. 

Powers, on the other hand, got worse. Since he untangled himself out of the dissolved webs, he became quite the laughingstock amongst the group, and then word spread about the incident. Powers grew infuriated and Peter never missed those threatening glares Powers sent. Not that he did anything to Peter. Mr. Reynolds actively kept the two of them distant, preventing any kind of vengeance Powers may have planned.

Peter didn't care too much about it. He hardly saw much of his teammates anyway. The internship surprisingly kept him busy. Peter worked with Mr. Stark in the workshop twice a week for three to four hours a day, but he also had work to do outside the workshop. Mr. Stark wanted him to practice coding as it became apparent it was not his forte. He gave Peter a laptop to borrow. 

“This is for work purposes only," Mr. Stark said as he handed the Stark laptop to Peter. "I better not get it back with the hard-drive full of porn.”

Peter's face flushed crimson. "No, no, no, no" he said, ear turning beet red. "I-I would  _never_  do that."

Mr. Stark smirked. "I know, kid. Just messing with you," he joked, ruffling Peter's hair into a messy swirl, "but I am serious though. None of that."

Peter didn't. He used the laptop for work purposes only. He sat at the library, typing away and debugging codes into the late hours. He wasn't alone though. Vision accompanied him. On standby in case Peter ran into trouble with coding assignments. Peter thought it was to ensure Peter didn't use the computer for anything else. Not that he could. The Wi-Fi was locked and Peter didn't know the password. 

In any case, Peter already knew everything. Mr. Stark kept his promise and updated him on what was happening with the Accords. At first, whenever Peter saw Mr. Stark, he bombarded him with questions, never giving the man time to answer the first few that he asked. Most of the time, Mr. Stark had no updates. Nothing had changed since they last spoke. It disheartened Peter. Sometimes he got mad. Or sad. Or worse, he felt dead. He dreaded the idea of being raised at the Compound for years to come. To never see his aunt again. Those feelings made his body heavy. Too heavy to move and he was left lying about for hours.

But, Mr. Stark did his best. He informed Peter of any new developments right away, sometimes even before Peter asked. The UN stopped demanding the AI designs and tried to compromise with Mr. Stark on other things he listed on his terms.

"It's something," Mr. Stark said after giving Peter the good news. “I know it's painfully slow, but we’re moving now. We’re getting somewhere.”

Mr. Stark’s little encouragements helped ease away some of the anxieties Peter endured. It would be better if the results came faster, but Mr. Stark was right. At least, they were getting somewhere.

Peter didn’t mope all day about it. His life got busier with the internship, training and schooling. It was work, work and more work, with stress squeezed in between. Not that Peter complained over the overload. He relieved to miss practice here and there, and school wasn’t too bad. Leo and Jemma were great as usual, sparking some fun discussions and intriguing ideas. Best part of all? Mr. Stark agreed to cease all therapy sessions. Peter no longer had to waste an hour listening to Dr. Samson trying to piece him together like he was broken.

When he had downtime, Peter snuck back into his room, pencil and paper in hand, to sketch out some inventions of his own. Since working with Mr. Stark, he got the opportunity to get a closer view of the Iron Man suits, the tech and specs of the design and how to put it all together. It got Peter thinking and day-dreaming of his own specialized suit for Spider-man.

He sat on his bed and sketched. Most of them were awful, but he liked a few of his suit designs. Each one unique, stylized in different colors and settings. Peter ensured a spider-logo was attached though. Iron Man had his arc reactor. Peter had a spider.

Peter labeled each design the same way Mr. Stark did. He was up to  _Spider V_  at the moment, thinking of ways to keep the material durable in fights without ripping or busting. Metal armor was took clunky and would be hard to swing around the city. Cheap cotton or polyester wouldn’t do either. He needed a type of material that was durable, flexible and wouldn't hinder his microhairs from gripping the walls. He thought of spandex, but already could hear Mr. Stark laughing over the ridiculous idea of spandex as a uniform.

He checked the time. It’s been a few hours. Time to stretch his legs and clear his head.

He departed from the residential wing to return to that little courtyard he enjoyed. Except, the door didn’t open. It was locked. Peter slouched, saddened being trapped behind the glass. “FRIDAY? Can you unlock this door?”

The static of the AI voice came. “The director has it closed for re-landscaping,” it said. “It will be available again in a week.”

Peter dropped his forehead against the window. There went that plan. Peter turned away and wandered through the corridors, keeping to himself as he passed from one hallway to the next. A few people stopped him to ask after him, to which Peter always answered with a quick affirmative before he hurried away.

Needing to get out of sight, he grabbed the first door closest to him and entered. It was his great surprise that the room was not empty. It was the opposite. It was quite crowded. People were seated on couches, a few in front of a television, others in a circle around a coffee table and another pushed up against the corner near a bookcase. There was a foosball table with players wrestling each other over the handlebars to score a goal. Elsewhere was a billiards table, two players concentrating on where to aim to shoot a ball. One glanced up upon the close of the door and smiled at Peter.

“Hey there, Pete!”

It was Jack. And Luke turned away from the billiards table to look at him too. Jack waved him over and Peter, avoiding those odd looks from others, quickly joined them.

Jack gave him a strong pat on the back. “What are you doing here?” he questioned. “Decided to join the rest of us?”

“Need to clear my head,” Peter said as he watched Luke make a hit. “What is this place?”

“Just a random lounge,” Luke said and Jack made his line-up. “A place to relax in-between practices.”

A social gathering, Peter deduced. One of the places Vision and others tried to entice him out of the library. “You come here often?”

“Enough to be the best pool players around here,” Jack prided himself. He took his shot, but his ball rolled an inch too far in the left direction, missing the coveted hole. “Damn!”

Luke chuckled and moved around the table to position himself. Jack moved out of his way, leaning on his stick. “Gotta tell us… what is it like working for Stark?”

Peter shrugged. “Not bad. He keeps me working.”

“I’ll say! You haven’t been around practice at all.”

“Sorry.”

“For what? Getting way from the rest of us? Not having to deal with Powers’ shit?” Jack chuckled at the absurdity of Peter’s apology. “You’re lucky. Must be nice to be Stark’s golden boy.”

“It’s not like that,” Peter said, shifting his weight on his feet, bumbling his hands. “I just… he’s helping me with something.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Luke asked.

“To get me back with my aunt.”

Luke and Jack stopped playing and looked at him. “What?” Luke broke the awkward silence. “I thought you were an orphan.”

“I am.”

“Then what’s with the aunt?” Jack questioned.

“She’s my guardian.”

“I thought you didn’t have a guardian,” Luke said again, walking over to them. “That’s what Mr. Reynolds said, right?” He directed his query to Jack.

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Said something about you being an orphan kid and to be careful with you,” he said. “Well, at least, he said that months ago when you first arrived. So… you have family?”

“Do they know you’re here?” Luke asked after.

Peter helplessly shrugged. “Yeah. She knows. At least, Mr. Stark says so. He’s been working on getting me back to my aunt, but the UN is making it difficult.”

They both looked sympathetically at him. “Ah, man. That sucks. Sorry about that,” Jack said after a moment. “Kind of know what that feels like.”

“Me too,” Luke added.

Peter wondered what they meant. “Didn’t you guys volunteer to come here?”

“Well, yeah,” Jack answered for the both of them. “But—”

“What’s going on over here?”

A strange, dark voice cut right through Peter’s conversation with his teammates. Peter turned around and a towering figure stood menacingly in front of him. The man was double Peter’s height, even when bent over to leer at Peter. Dark eyes drew into a frighteningly narrowed glare as the corner of the man’s thin lips twitched into a scowl.

Suddenly, Peter was flanked by both Luke and Jack.

“Nothing,” Jack answered, casual. “Playing a game here.”

The man barely huffed at Jack’s attempted diversion. “I’m talkin’ to the little punk ass kid here,” his eyes flickered back down to Peter. “What’re you doing here? This isn’t Chuck E’ Cheese.”

“Nor is it a 21 and over club,” Luke tacked on. “Mind your own business, Maddicks.”

“Can’t. Not with the kid here,” Maddicks nudged in Peter’s direction. “Causing all sorts of problems…”

Peter’s brows pinched together, nose wrinkled in puzzlement as he looked from Maddicks to Jack and Luke. What problems? He hasn’t done anything except stand and watch Luke and Jack play billiards.

“Leave him alone,” Jack said. “He’s not doing anything.”

“Yet trouble finds a way to show up wherever he is. We don’t want him here,” Maddicks glared down at Peter. “Get the fuck out, kid.”

“You can’t kick him out,” Jack defended. “He has the right to be here if he wants to.”

Peter was getting more and more confused what was happening. He hadn’t done anything wrong since arriving. He stood by the pool table, watching and talking. “Hey, man, I didn’t do anything,” he said to Maddicks. “I’m just hanging out with—”

“You aren’t wanted here

And Peter found himself right back in school, being socially rejected for whatever reason this time. “Yeah, yeah, I get that,” he said, noting all the uneasy stares at him. “But why? I haven’t done anything.”

Maddicks’ nostrils flared up, teeth grinding. “Don’t play shit with me, kid.”

“I’m not!”

“Leave him alone, Maddicks,” Luke warned him again. “He has no control over it.”

“Control over what?” Peter grew frustrated by everyone’s lack of specifics. His head swiveled around to the different faces and his mind became dizzier. What were they hiding from him this time?

Maddicks huffed in disbelief. Peter paused, rapidly thinking of reasons. “Is this because of the internship?” he questioned, “because Mr. Stark asked—”

“Of course! Mr. Stark this and Mr. Stark that,” Maddicks rudely mimicked Peter’s voice. “Must be nice to be the  _Golden Boy_. Get to do whatever the hell you want.”

“I’m not… Mr. Stark’s my boss,” Peter countered, stressed by the sudden draw of attention. “I don’t get to—”

“What? Hang-out with him in his fancy workshop? Skip training? Get fancy new gadgets?” Maddicks mimicked Peter’s web-shooting skills. “And if you break the rules? Nah—you’re the victim. You can do no wrong.”

Maddicks’ rants left Peter far more bewildered. “T-That’s not true.” He remembered the punishment he got when he jumped the fence.

Luke stepped up and Jack put a hand on Peter’s shoulder to pull him back. “That’s enough, Mads,” Luke said. “If you want to stay out of trouble, then you best leave.”

“He leaves,” ordered Maddicks and there were a few murmurs of approval. “That’s the only way for any of us to stay out of the hole.”

Peter cocked his head. The hole? The mysterious hole Leo once brought up only to keep his lips sealed on the matter. But… what did the hole have to do with him?

“What do you mean the hole?” Peter asked. “I don’t—”

Luke cut Peter off. “He’s a kid! He has no control what other people decide,” he argued. “If you don’t want to go to the hole, then don’t bother him. It’s that easy!”

Peter tried to speak up louder. “What’s the hole got to do with—”

“If something happens to him,” Maddicks fired back, overpowering Peter’s questioning, “ _we_  get sent to the hole. Whether we did it or not!”

Peter’s stomach did an uneasy flip. This was not good. “What is the hole?” he asked, but it seemed his voice fell on deaf ears as no one acknowledged him.

Luke only drew his brows close together, defiant in his position against the accuser. “You’re exaggerating,” he declared to Maddicks. “Stop with the bullshit.”

“You fucking know I’m not,” Maddicks spun around on his foot, announcing to the gathered crowd who watched the scene unfold. “Watch what you do around him,” the man warned, scowling, as he jerked in Peter’s direction. “Step on his toe and you’re down the hole. Forever.”

Peter’s eyebrows sharply dipped and his gaze narrowed on Maddicks in objection. “That’s not true!”

Maddicks scoffed. “Yeah? Then where’s Lester? Jack-O?” he challenged and Peter, at first, had no idea who he was referring to. “Last they were seen was two weeks ago. Off to figure out how to beat  _you_.”

Peter remembered. The man with the bullseye scar on his forehead. Holding a pencil right to his eye, threatening him while his friend, with a disfigured face and missing teeth, laughed. Bishop sent them away. Told them they were idiots and to get out. That was the last time Peter ever saw them, but Peter never bothered to look for them either. Why would he? They were bullies. He didn’t need to find more trouble.

“I don’t know,” Peter answered, flustered by all the scrutiny. “Mr. Bishop sent them off. I wasn’t—”

“And where do you think he sent them off to, eh?” Maddicks countered, screwing his face in revolt at Peter. “Now, do us all a favor and stay away. I don’t need to lose any more teammates because of you.”

Maddicks turned his back and headed off to a space away from Peter. Others followed, making a wide berth around Peter as they tiptoed away to join Maddicks. One by one, each person backed away from Peter like he was the plague, a ticking bomb that could get them killed. All except Jack and Luke, who remained at his side.

It was like middle school all over again. Rumors spread followed with rejection before being labeled as a social outcast. Not that Peter wasn’t already an outcast. But now, it was more prominent in the Compound. No longer the invisible boy. Now, he was noticed and avoided like a pariah.

Peter resigned and headed for the doors.

“Peter!” Jack called, snatching his elbow. “Don’t listen to them. You can stay if you want.”

“Nah… it’s all right. I gotta go anyway,” Peter mumbled, pulling his arm free from Jack and stepping back from him and Luke. “I got… things.”

Alone and unwanted, Peter left, shoulders hunched as he trekked back to his room. He never asked to be there. Not like them. He didn’t volunteer to join the UN’s army of super-soldiers. It wasn’t his fault either if Bishop or someone else sent Bullseye and Jack-O to the hole or whatever it was. He didn’t do it. He didn’t ask for anyone to do it and he didn’t know.

Peter let out a deep, frustrated sigh. Everything he did resulted in some backlash. He never did anything right. Everyone probably feared him because they all feared going into the hole. Whatever that was.

And Peter had no clue. What was the hole? Where was it? It bothered Peter he knew little about it while everyone else knew all about it and refused to indulge the knowledge to him. They all got disconcerted, ignoring his questioning or ordering him to forget about it. No one answered him.

Peter received a new message from his web-shooters. It was Mr. Stark, telling him to come up to the workshop. Peter was happy to get away from everything, busy his mind with mechanics and computer programming than stupid gossip and lies.

* * *

Nope. Didn’t happen.

Maddick’s accusations remained with him, even when Mr. Stark gave him the exciting task of tweaking the Quinjet cloaking hardware. Maddick’s words seared in the forefront of Peter’s mind, distracting Peter from his task. He tried to concentrate, but his mind rattled with too many questions. His curious intellect bombarded him for answers. Now.

Peter rolled in his lips, debating to ask or not. Mr. Stark's focus was far away from the present situation. He had his blowtorch in his hand, soldering two items that resembled pieces of a laser system. He didn't even noticed Peter lack of progress on his task. And probably wouldn't for hours until Peter had to leave.

Best to ask now rather than later. "Um... Mr. Stark?"

The man didn't hear him over the power of the tools, so Peter yelled louder. "Mr. Stark?!"

The blowtorch zapped out and Mr. Stark lifted his head, eyes looking at him through a pair of safety goggles. 

With Mr. Stark’s full attention, Peter continued, "Can I ask you something?"

“Sure," Mr. Stark pulled off his goggles and tossed them aside. "Stuck on something?”

He moved around to Peter's end, looking at the pieces of hardware at Peter's work-space. His brows furrowed in confusion as to what the exact problem was. "Did you do anything?" he questioned, examining one of the wires.

“It's not about this," Peter gestured to the project. "It's about something else.”

Mr. Stark studied Peter's face for a moment, tentative to what the question regarded. "O-kay... what's on your mind, squire?"

Peter took a deep breath. "I've been hearing a few things," he started, uncertain what to say exactly, "and it kind of got me curious."

He looked at Mr. Stark. The man's face was perfectly blank. Nothing gave away the man's thoughts as he casually leaned against the desk, waiting for Peter to spit out his question.

"So, um, I was wondering, erm, about… if people wanted to uh… who don’t..." Peter stuttered along, struggling to get the question out by the piercing look Mr. Stark wore. It made him have second thoughts. “I mean—what do we do when training is over?”

Mr. Stark merely lifted a shrewd brow. "Is that really your question?"

No. It wasn't. Peter sighed, deciding to ask him straight. "Mr. Stark... what's the hole?"

Mr. Stark’s head snapped up so quickly, Peter thought he broke his neck. The pupils widened in those brown irises and his mouth dropped in stunned reaction. Then, his eyes narrowed, a fury growing behind that cool mask.

“Where did you hear that?”

The intensity of Mr. Stark persona and sharp tone caused Peter to scoot away. “Nowhere.”

The man didn’t believe him. “Who?” he demanded, pushing off the desk and towering over Peter. Like Maddicks did earlier, making Peter feel small. “Who told you?”

“No one!” Peter’s voice cracked a bit in fright. His spider-sense tingling in warning that the man before him was on a verge of rage. “No one… I just heard it from, um... around.”

Mr. Stark’s lips pressed into a thin, taut line of frustration. His knuckles had gone white from his own intensity. Turning away from the workbench, the man scrunched his mouth, grumbling to himself. He drew his hand down his hardened jawline, none too pleased.

“What is it?” Peter asked, hoping to get a better understanding of what the ‘hole’ was and why it scared everyone. “What’s the hole? Why is everyone afraid of it?”

“Forget it,” Mr. Stark ordered in a clipped, dismissive tone. Almost hoping the conversation would be swept away by his command alone. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

“But everyone seems afr—”

“I said don’t worry about it,” Mr. Stark snapped, still enraged. “It has nothing to do with you. Don’t worry about it.”

Unless he was bad. Unless they thought he was too troublesome to rein in and then dumped him in the hole forever.

“But if I do something wrong or—”

“Nope. Zip it. Done talking,” Mr. Stark shook his head, refusing to listen. “Got it?”

He waited for Peter to agree to his terms.

Peter didn’t. “Why won’t anyone tell me?” he asked, resentful of being kept in the dark. “What’s the big deal? Is it a prison? Like a special jail for people like me—”

“I said we're done.”

“—Is it underground? Is that why it’s called the hole—"

“Stop."

“—how many are in there? Are they all bad or did they just not want to—”

Mr. Stark slammed his fist right down on the workbench. A single crack cut through the air, and all went quiet under its power. Peter tensed up, eyes on the knuckled fist for a moment before he trailed up the arm and to Mr. Stark's firm glare. The sheer anger shining through those dark orbs made Peter want to scrunch into a ball. 

"Enough!" Mr. Stark seethed through his clenched jaw. "Done! No more talking about it. No more asking questions about it. Don’t even  _think_  about it. Got it?"

Peter's words were trapped in his throat.

He nodded instead.

That wasn't good enough for Mr. Stark. The man grabbed Peter's arms, squeezing so tight that Peter swore a bruise was forming underneath the man's iron grip. Mr. Stark bent his head down, close enough that Peter could not look at anything else, but the man’s livid gaze.

“Answer me!” Mr. Stark growled, demanding a response from him.

It was hard, but Peter choked out a reply. “Y-Yes, sir.”

Mr. Stark didn’t look satisfied, but he let Peter go and moved back to his area on the workbench. His shoulders were tense and his fingers raptured against the workbench as he pondered briefly while Peter remained frozen stiff in his stool.

Peter didn’t know what to do. He wanted to apologize, ask for forgiveness, but before he could, Mr. Stark spoke up.

“You know what? I’ll finish up here,” Mr. Stark collected the hard drive he gave to Peter at the beginning of their time. “You can go.”

Peter blinked, surprised by the sudden dismissal. And hurt too. “Um, Mr. Stark, I’m sorry if I—”

“No. No, no, no, and no,” Mr. Stark said, not even looking at him. “It’s obvious you can’t focus at the moment. It’ll be a quick job for me to do this. Don’t need you here. Dum-E? Show Mr. Parker to the elevator.”

And Dum-E rolled right up to Peter, picking at his shirt to get him to follow. Peter looked at Mr. Stark, trying to catch the man’s eyes, but to no avail. So, he slipped off his stool.

“I’m sorry,” Peter muttered, before he walked from the workbench to the elevator doors.

Mr. Stark said nothing more. Didn’t even bother to say goodbye. He put on his safety goggles and picked up the blowtorch again, working away while Peter, dishearten, stepped into the elevator alone.

* * *

Peter hadn’t returned to the workshop in days.

The first few days after the incident, Peter tried to come up with ways to apologize to Mr. Stark. He wrote out several apology letters, but his words felt fake. Peter didn’t know what he was truly apologizing for. Was he sorry for bringing up the hole? No. Was he sorry he angered Mr. Stark? A little, but as Peter thought over it, he grew angrier.

Shouldn’t  _he_  be receiving an apology? All he did was ask a question everyone else already knew the answer to. Yet, Mr. Stark acted like he made a personal insult against the man’s mother. Their persistence to keep Peter ignorant on the matter was an affront to his intelligence. If anything, it only made Peter’s interest on the matter more intense and pursue an answer.

He lounged on the bed after a long day at school, clueing information together to figure out what the mysterious hole was, when a knock ruptured at his door.

Peter stilled.

He lifted his eyes to the door. Was someone at his door?

Another round of knocking answered his question. But… who knocked? No one ever knocked at his door. They all entered whether he granted them permission or not. They barged right into his space, not caring to invade his privacy. So, it surprised Peter to hear someone knocking.

Peter hid the laptop underneath the pillow and slid off the mattress. His spidey-senses weren't going off. Perhaps it was Nellie? Checking in on him after his seclusion to his room. 

Peter swallowed a big breath. "Who is it?"

“It's me, kid, “ came a muffled voice behind the door. "Tony.”

Peter's brows furrowed in great confusion before it melted into pure anxiety. Mr. Stark only came to Peter to take him somewhere else. Somewhere he’s never been to. And, suddenly the hole became a lot more real than imaginary.

Maddicks was wrong. Peter got in trouble and now, Mr. Stark came to send him straight to the hole.

It took him moment to gather his bearings before he answered the door. If that was to be, what could Peter do to stop it?

Peter got to the door and opened it. Mr. Stark stood right outside, as expected. He was not as formally dress as normal when outside the workshop. He had on dark jeans and a faded rock band long-sleeve shirt. His hair was scraggly and face weary with the heavy bags underneath his eyes. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

The normally, dandy man appeared in duress. Something Peter never imagined to be possible.

Peter’s guts twisted. Something not good to make the man look less than put-together.

Mr. Stark’s shoulders sagged as he breathed out. “Can I come in?”

Did it matter? Peter stepped aside to grant the man entrance. Mr. Stark sauntered in, as normal, but with less arrogance than normal. He glanced around, looking for a place to sit and only finding the bed.

“Can I?” Mr. Stark pointed to the bed, asking to sit.

Peter nodded, but didn’t move away from the door. He made that his position. Close to the exit to make a quick getaway if necessary. It was a good distance too. Kept him safe from Mr. Stark if the man decided to take action. Although, the man hardly looked strong enough to fire a bolt.

Mr. Stark sat on the bed, drawing out another exhausted sigh. He said nothing and Peter’s muscles got tenser. Shouldn’t something be said? Was Mr. Stark waiting on him to say something? To apologize? That had to be it, right?

Peter’s hands wrangled together, fingers twisted painfully as the silence lingered. Why wasn’t Mr. Stark saying anything?

Probably because he was waiting on him. Great.

“Um… I’m sorry.”

Peter’s words floated between them, echoing on and on. He winced at hearing his apology.

Even Mr. Stark heard the lameness in his apology. “Why do you keep saying that?”

Peter shrugged, uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t keep saying it then,” Mr. Stark advised, not at all harsh or strict. “Or else it won’t mean anything.”

“Okay.”

Silence fell again. This wasn’t good. At all.

Mr. Stark stroked his jawline. “I, um, wanted to talk to you about what happened the other day.”

Peter slowly nodded, gaze downward as to avoid Mr. Stark’s stare. This was it. Mr. Stark was going to reveal his final decision.

“What transpired up in the workshop… it’s not,” Mr. Stark stopped for a moment, lips rolled in consideration. “It’s not all right. With what happened up there.”

Peter’s heart hammered harder in his chest. His breathing labored. This was it. No apology would change the man’s mind. He already made his decision.

Peter drew in an unsteady breath. Keep cool. Don’t break down. “What happens to me now?” he asked, his voice barely held together. “Do I, um… will I be sent to the hole now?”

“What?” Mr. Stark’s forehead wrinkled in deep grooves, incredulous by Peter’s words. “No, no, no—you’re not…” He got up from the bed. “You’re not going anywhere, Peter.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” Mr. Stark reaffirmed and he took a breath, bracing himself. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I know that and I don’t…” He sighed deeply, rubbing the side of his face as if to keep himself focused. “You’re like me. When you’re curious, you gotta know. Gotta know everything.”

Mr. Stark inhaled through his nose. “So—I’m going to lay it all out. Right now,” he said to Peter, but there was some hesitation. Almost like he didn’t want to talk about it. “The hole is a… super-max prison for criminally enhanced individuals.

“Individuals who are deemed dangerous to society and need to be, uh, contained for the safety of others,” Mr. Stark went on. “It’s a system that was put into place when the Accords were created and it works. Well, so far it works. Keeps those intent on hurting people away from the public. But… yeah. That’s what the hole is. A prison for—”

“People like me,” Peter finished, a coldness seeping right through his pores and into his bloodstream.

Mr. Stark sharply shook his head. “No—not for people like you,” he corrected him. “You’re not like those criminals. You’re the complete opposite.”

“I’m enhanced though,” Peter reminded Mr. Stark, not that the man needed reminding. He was sure Mr. Stark was quite aware of his status. “If I step one toe out of line—”

“You still wouldn’t be going to the hole.”

Peter’s eyebrows bunched close. “Why not?”

“Because you’re a kid,” Mr. Stark answered without any preamble. “If a normal kid robs a store, he’s sent to juvie. Not a super-max prison. Kids don’t get trialed as adults.”

“Sometimes they do.”

“Not you.”

Mr. Stark was definite in his response as if his word was spoken by a judge himself, declaring it into law. Peter dug his nail further into his cubicles that it stung in soreness. It didn’t make sense though to him. Why would a super-max prison be some sort of intricate secret? Why did everyone deliberating kept that information from him?

“So—it’s a prison,” Peter muttered out. “If that’s all it is, why was everyone being cryptic about it? Why did you get so angry at me for even asking about it?”

Mr. Stark looked guilty, flickering his eyes downward for a split second as he regained composure. “That was my fault. I got... overwhelmed and angry and those two combinations aren't good,” he admitted, begrudgingly. “I didn’t want to get you scared on this _idea_ of a super-max prison. Didn’t want you to worry your little head of yours. Thought I was doing the right thing, but I guess now, it was kind of stupid.”

Peter seconded that statement. “Yeah, I’m fifteen. Not six,” he told Mr. Stark. “I know what a prison is. It doesn’t scare me.”

Mr. Stark merely shrugged. “How am I supposed to know? I don’t work with kids every day nor am I exactly a father,” he pointed out. “I just thought the concept might freak you out. Didn’t want that, so I told everyone to not talk about it to you. Gone a bit overboard, but… I was worried. Concerned how it would affect you and… I didn’t want that.

“Although, my plan seemed to fail,” Mr. Stark sullenly commented. “You heard about it anyway.”

Peter nodded. It was hard not to hear about it when his character was being charged. “Yeah, I did because everyone blames me for sending others to the hole.”

“What?”

Peter crossed his arms, recalling Maddicks accusations. “What happened to Lester and Jack-O?”

“Who?”

Mr. Stark’s expression was of bemusement, like Peter had spoken nonsense to the man like an idiot. So, Peter spoke slowly. “Bullseye and Jack-O,” he said again. “What happened to them?”

Still baffled, Mr. Stark shrugged. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “How should I know? I don’t even know who they are. They sound like comic book names.”

“They were members of Shadow Company,” Peter said. “And now, I’m being blamed for their disappearance.”

“Who’s blaming you?”

Peter shook his head. “Doesn’t matter who! No one trusts me. No one likes me and… I’ve become this pariah because you sent off two people to the hole.”

Mr. Stark paused, trying to recall a moment in his past that revolved what Peter said. But the man’s face never eased up. No dawning remembrance. “I’m at a lost kid,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

Peter explained to Mr. Stark about the incident, describing both Lester and Jack-O in hopes it would trigger Mr. Stark’s memory. It wasn’t until Peter mentioned Bishop that a light of recognition reveled in Mr. Stark.

“Oh—right,” Mr. Stark snapped. “Bishop did mention something that happened to you in the library, but I didn’t dealt out the punishment, contrary to popular belief. Bishop asked me about it, but I told him to pick the appropriate penalty.” Mr. Stark raised his hand sup innocently. “So—I had nothing to do with it and neither do you.”

Peter peered, eyes arched in question. “Really?”

Mr. Stark nodded. “Yeah,” he assured him. “You’re not responsible for other people’s actions, Peter. They did the bad thing and they have to face the consequences. What those two did—if I remember Bishop’s story correctly—they threatened to take your eye out.”

Peter nodded and he felt a ghostly impression of a pencil underneath his eye.

“That shit doesn’t fly here because it’s at the Compound,” Mr. Stark said. “Laws are the same. You threaten violence to someone, you’re going to receive legal action. They brought it on themselves and you were just the victim. Don’t let all those jealous bastards get you to think otherwise.”

Peter shifted his feet, feeling a little better. Mr. Stark was right. He didn’t ask to have his eye nearly being taken out and he tried to tell Lester what he wanted. They ignored him and favored to make him blind.

Still, he doubted it was over any sort of jealousy. “I wouldn’t say they’re jealous,” he said to Mr. Stark.

“I would,” Mr. Stark countered. “Why else would they try to make your life miserable? You’re living in a Compound full of fragile ego superheroes. Of course they’ll take offense that some skinny kid walks in and makes them look like fools. Not all, but the majority would. They know that you’re good. They know you’re better than them and that can tick a person off.”

The man was right. Perhaps Peter stepped on too many toes. “I don’t mean to cause problems, Mr. Stark—”

“I know,” Mr. Stark said. “It’s just how it is. I wouldn’t drown myself in those worries though. You’re a good kid. You don’t need to be making friends with anyone of those fragile egos. And, if you need to get away from them, come up to the workshop. Hide out there.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Wait… I still have the internship?”

Mr. Stark chuckled, amused. “Of course you do,” he said. “I mean… if you still want it. I know Rhodey told you I am a hard man to work with and the other days incident didn’t really sell me well, but yeah… I would still like to have you on board.”

“So… you’re not mad at me?”

Mr. Stark shook his head. “No, I’m not,” he paused. “Are you mad at me?”

If asked earlier, Peter’s answer would be a strong affirmative. But now, with Mr. Stark confessions, Peter felt his anger ebb off him, replaced with understanding and acceptance. Maybe it wasn’t the right way to react, but the man sounded apologetic. And he certainly looked torn up about his behavior.

Mr. Stark noted the silence and spoke again. “Because if you are, I get it,” he said. “I was being an ass and I should have known better to not yell at you. But, I really do believe in you, Peter. I really think you’re going to do something amazing with your life and I want to help you get there. Scout’s honor.”

The man held up a symbol of sort that Peter didn’t recognize. Must revolve around that whole scout’s honor. Peter pressed his lips together to form a soft smile. It was a relief to him that he was not going to the hole. Better yet, Mr. Stark wanted to keep him around, still allowing Peter the chance to come back to intern with him.

Peter wanted to keep working with Mr. Stark, to learn more and tinker with machinery. Mr. Stark was going to be working with nanotech and Peter wanted a chance to see it in action.

“Yeah, yeah, I still want to be your intern,” Peter said to Mr. Stark. “Thank you! I just didn’t know because I was some time that I heard anything from you until now and I didn’t think you even wanted me again.”

“That’s my fault again,” Mr. Stark confided to Peter. “After that incident, I had to take a break to, um, well, emotionally re-charge. Had a few talks with others and figure a few things out. You know—that sort of thing.

“Anyway—it got me thinking about something,” Mr. Stark continued on. “Something I believe you would like, so I’ve busied myself these last few days trying to get it set up.” He dug his hand into his pocket. “Wanted to give you something to make-up for my poor behavior up in the workshop.”

Mr. Stark pulled out a phone-like gadget, tapping it against his hands. “It’s against protocol,” he informed Peter. “If Ross or the UN finds out… there’s going to be hell.”

His cryptic words made Peter intrigued. “What is it?”

“A way for you to call your aunt.”

Peter’s heart seized up. “What?”

“Yep,” Mr. Stark nodded, cradling the phone in his hand. “I managed to track down the one and only May Parker’s phone number. Configured it here on the phone to keep the ears and eyes of the UN distracted. That way, you can call your aunt and talk for a few minutes without the UN listening in on you.

“Unfortunately, it’s only a one-time thing,” Mr. Stark sighed, sounding just as disappointed as Peter. “Multiple signals would get the UN curious and then they’ll start breathing down my neck and take you away. Can’t have that, so… I got you this one shot.”

Mr. Stark passed the phone onto Peter. Peter stepped away from his position at the door and moved to stand in front of Mr. Stark. The man sympathetically stared at him as he took the phone delicately, not wanting it to break in his freakishly strong grip. Right there on the screen was his aunt’s number, ready to be dialed. It’s been so long since he talked to his aunt. He had so much to say to her and wanted to hear her voice again, even if it was through tears and anger. He wanted to hear her and tell her how much he missed her and loved her.

A slither of a smile peaked on Mr. Stark’s face. “Go ahead, kid,” he said. “Make the call and do it quick.”

Peter hit the call button.

He put it to his ear.

It rang.


	15. Dinner Plans

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Peter pressed the phone to his ear. His heartbeat in rhythm with the rings that continued. Mr. Stark gestured to the door, indicating he was going to be right outside. Give him privacy to speak to his aunt.

Meanwhile, the phone rang on.

Come on, May! Peter silently pleaded. Pick up! It's not a scam.

The phone rang on and on, but no answer. Peter's throat constricted. Palms sweating. His brows creased deep in the center the longer the phone rang. Did something happen to May? Something bad? Something he could have prevented if he was with her?

Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

The phone clicked and a sweet, caring voice spoke in his ear. "You reached May Parker. Leave a message." Then the automatic voice followed with instructions to leave a message.

Her voicemail. He got her voicemail.

Peter sunk into the bed. The automatic voice continued. He had a second to prepare his speech. Only a second to overcome his disappointment before the tone beeped.

"Hey May... it's me. Peter," he said through his constricted throat, trying not to cry. Already, he pictured her pacing in the kitchen, worrying. "... I-I know, I know... god May. I miss you so much. I think about you every day and how much I want to be home. And I am so sorry! Really May—I  _never_ wanted to hurt you. And I'm sorry for not calling you sooner, but... but they wouldn't let me and this is my only chance. If they find out... they'll take me away and… I don't even know where…" Peter inhaled sharply, trying to stop his sadness from tuning his voice. "I know I'm at the Compound. The Avengers' Compound. That's where they took me because... because..."

He never told his aunt the truth of his mysterious illness. When she and Uncle Ben stayed up through the night with him, trying to ease whatever flu that overcame him. They wanted to take him to the emergency room, but Peter dissuade them on it. They couldn't afford hospital bills. But, miraculously, the next morning he felt better. Better than ever. Yet, he never said a word to them about his transformation. He kept Aunt May in the dark for her own protection and state of mind.

But now... he had no choice. She had to know.

Peter drew a deep breath, "because I'm Spider-man," he said and pictured Aunt May's gobsmacked face, dropping an F-bomb. "I know. I know. I should have told you, but... I was afraid. Afraid I might get you hurt… or killed. I didn't want to freak you out or anything. I kept it a secret and I… I didn't think anyone knew, but the UN does. And now, they won't let me go because of the Accords or something. Something about not signing my name because all enhanced individuals need to sign their names... I'm not entirely sure. All I know is that I am being kept here because of the Accords.

"I don't know what they have said to you, but Mr. Stark is handling it," Peter said to reassure her. If she knew Iron Man was helping him, it might bring her some comfort. Not much, but enough. "He's working on it. He's fighting against a guy named Ross or something, and the rest of the UN council to get me released back to you. He said it's a slow process, but we are making progress. At least, I think we are. I'm not entirely certain. I think so though.

"May—I'm sorry. Really, really sorry. I really want to be home. I miss you and I lov—"

A click interrupted him and the automatic voice came back on, informing him that he reached his messaging limit. It gave him more instructions, but Peter just hung-up. He had more to say to his aunt. Yet, the phone cut him off and he was left with no more chances.

Peter lowered the phone from his ear, staring straight ahead at the thin carpet underneath him. Mr. Stark warned him he could only call once or else the different signal would alert the UN officials. And if they were alerted, then Peter would be gone. Probably to the hole, despite Mr. Stark's promises.

Was it worth it? Even if he reached her, would he ever see her again? Mr. Stark assured him that Peter would see his aunt again, but the UN never made that promise. They only promised control and secrecy. He would be at their mercy and doubt they would make exceptions for his case like Mr. Stark did.

Still... the itch to hear his aunt grew stronger. His finger already sliding to re-dial.

The door whipped open and Mr. Stark stood in the threshold. He looked at the phone to Peter. "Hadn't heard anything for a bit," he said. "Did you talk to her?"

Peter dropped his head, eyes averted to the floor.

Mr. Stark sighed and sat beside him on the bed. "I'm sorry, squirt."

Peter kept his face down, using the palms to brush away the tears. "Yeah, um, she probably thought it was scam," he said with a nasally tone. "You know… there's been an increase in phone scams and she probably thought it was, um, one of those. Or something."

He breathed, sniffling. "I left a message," he mumbled. "In a way, it got to speak to her. I guess."

"That's good," Mr. Stark said, sounding far more uplifted than Peter felt. "I mean, it's not the same as actual dialogue, but at least she'll get your message. Know you are all right and everything."

"But I don't know about her!" Peter cried out, hands gripping the mattress, squeezing tight. Holding on for his sanity and life. "I don't know if she's okay or... or if she's in trouble or if she's—"

"She's alive, Peter," Mr. Stark assured, in an attempt to cool Peter's rising anxiety. "I would tell you otherwise. At the moment, I know she's alive and all right. Still living in Queens."

Peter numbly nodded, but the dreadful fear still quivered his bones. "Yeah… yeah."

A long pause followed, neither of them speaking. Peter hardly cared. His own thoughts were clouded and heavy. All he could focus on was his aunt and his worries for her. Didn't matter if she was alive or okay. Mr. Stark could tell him Aunt May lived in a palace, living in great comfort and he would still be worrying about her.

Because nothing materialistic would ever fill the empty void of losing family.

A hand suddenly dropped on his shoulder. "I may have something to cheer you up," Mr. Stark announced. "Why don't you swing by tomorrow? Say… seven?"

"Seven," Peter repeated in a quiet murmur. "School ends at 6:45 tomorrow. Then I have practice—"

"I'll talk to Jemma and Reynolds."

Peter didn't know why he even bother. Mr. Stark was the highest authority figure. He could clear Peter's whole schedule if he wanted to. And although Peter didn't have the heart to do anything other than curl into a ball onto his bed, he couldn't exactly decline Mr. Stark's attempt to make him happy.

He gave in. "Okay."

Mr. Stark beamed, happy to have his invitation accepted. "Good! Just tell FRIDAY and she'll take you on up."

He stood up, pocketing the phone out of sight. No more chances to contact his aunt. Mr. Stark headed for the door, but paused. His eyes scanned the bedroom with an inquisitive scrutiny.

"Wow! Your room is pathetically sad," Mr. Stark commented as he swiveled his head around to look everywhere. "It reminds me of a cheap, motel room. Worse though because at least the motel has some art décor."

Mr. Stark moved, checking the bland furniture. "You do know you can spruce up the place, right?" he directed the query to Peter. "Everyone else redecorated to fit their personal style. If you want to get posters for the walls or books to fill the shelves, you can ask."

Peter didn't know, but he never bothered to ask. He always figured the room was temporary anyway. "It's not my room," he said, shrugging. "It's technically yours. I'm just staying in it."

Mr. Stark's obnoxiously rolled in his eyes. "You have my full permission to remodel it," he granted. "Make it yours. Fill it with Star Wars memorabilia and the works, if you want. I don't care. I'm not using it."

"Thanks, but it's fine," Peter said, uncaring. "It's temporary anyway."

His words repulsed Mr. Stark. The man crinkled his nose, eyes tight as he looked from the bare walls to Peter. "Doesn't mean you have to live like a Mennonite!" he huffed, swatting the white dresser. "No wonder you run off to the library whenever you get the chance."

He scratched his chin in contemplation. "I'm going to order you a few things," he decided, mostly to himself. "Get this place looking alive and not so… dead."

"That's not necessary, Mr. Stark."

Mr. Stark was ignoring him. He was taken screen shots of the bedroom before sending them somewhere. "FRIDAY? Send those photos to my guy. Tell him it's for a teenager."

"On it, Boss." FRIDAY responded.

Peter got up from his bed. "Mr. Stark—really! I don't want it decorated."

Because if it was decorated then it wouldn't be his jail cell. It would remind him of home. And he was not home.

But, Mr. Stark was listening to him. "Well, as you so pointed out to me, I own the room," he said. "So… I'm going to decorate it as I see fit, considering I own it and all. And I think I would like an original Star Wars poster right there."

Mr. Stark gestured his fingers into a square, acting like he could picture it on the wall over Peter's twin bed. "And then we can get better sheets," he said. "How about Iron Man sheets? I saw them in kid's Pottery Barn catalogue."

Peter saw the teasing glint in the man's eyes, but Peter didn't want to risk guessing the man wrong. "The sheets are fine," he insisted. "I don't need kid sheets."

"Okay—but what about…"

Mr. Stark teased Peter with a few other things until Peter couldn't help but laugh at the obnoxious things Mr. Stark was willing to buy for him. He nearly almost convinced Peter that he truly needed a piano matt to stomp around when he came back to his room from a long day.

After the smile, Mr. Stark ruffled his hair. "There's a smile," he observed. "But, in all seriousness, I am going to order you a few things. You can't live like this. It's uncivilized."

Peter crinkled his nose up as he mockingly frown at the man. He knew it was a waste of energy to keep fighting on about it, so he let Mr. Stark purchase only a few things. Nothing extravagant. He got Mr. Stark to swear that he wouldn't buy anything elaborate or way over expensive. Only the basics.

"You're a bore kid. Gotta live a little," Mr. Stark said after Peter informed him that purchasing an electric drum kit would be considered elaborate and overpriced. "All right, we both have things we need to do. So, I will see you later."

Mr. Stark left and Peter sighed and checked his watch. He was supposed to be at practice twenty minutes ago. Peter rolled off the bed and shoved his shoes on, nearly tripping on the loose laces as he raced out.

* * *

Peter stood in the center of the elevator as FRIDAY led him up toward the penthouse. The day was long and hard. After failing to reach Aunt May the night before, Peter struggled to really go through the day without feeling depressed. He wondered how his message affected May. He wondered if she was doing anything to get him back or if she was also stuck in a similar situation as him?

All these thoughts clogged up his mind and it dragged him. He almost nearly forgot to shower before coming, which was why his hair was damp. He barely had time to completely dry it.

He sensed the elevator slowing down and Peter pulled himself together, combing his fingers through his hair to make it look less curly. The elevator parted open and Peter stepped out into... into... wait. Peter checked the area around him. This wasn't the office. Where did FRIDAY take him?

He walked into a small foyer that opened to a spacious layout. He was on a platform with steps that led him down to the main area. It was big! The wide-open rooms was minimalistically decorated with ample white or grey furniture and expensive art to decorate the white walls. There was even a nook with a grand piano and miniature bar, stocked with what Peter imagined was the good stuff.

FRIDAY dropped him off at the wrong floor. It didn't look anything like Mr. Stark's office. Peter remembered Mr. Stark's office as being sleek and technically advanced with dark grey coloring. This looked more… homey.

Peter turned to a glass console table where a single picture frame rested between a small lamp and potted plant. He glanced at the picture and instantly recognized Tony Stark in the photo. The person next to him took him a little longer to figure out.

Or, until the person from behind surprised him.

"You must be Peter."

Peter jumped and spun around, tipping into the table. His heart logged right into his throat as his eyes widened in fear for a split second as he took in the new person. A woman with strawberry blonde hair and a kind face stood behind him, dressed in professional slacks and a white blouse. She wore a patient smile, coming over to him.

"I'm Pepper Potts," the woman greeted, and Peter found himself shaking her hand. "It's nice to meet you."

It all clicked together. The woman in the photograph next to Tony was Pepper Potts and this was their home. Their penthouse they shared. Peter's eyes scanned around them, taking in everything and admonishing himself for not seeing it right away.

Then, his eyes drifted further into the penthouse and he spotted the dining room. The table was set with fine dining, napkins and… oh god—

He interrupted date night!

Peter's senses even detected the aroma of chicken, sautéed vegetables and a sweet, delicate smell of what Peter thought might be cake. Peter scolded himself again. He messed up! He got the time wrong and now, he intruded on their home and interrupted a date.

Peter looked back to Pepper. "I'm sorry," he started off. "I didn't realize—"

The sound of hurried footsteps drummed in his ears. Peter looked in the direction of the footsteps and Mr. Stark came whipping around the corner. "Hey Pepper!" he called to her, not noticing Peter. "Where is that Jackson Pollock painting I bought?"

"I sold it," Pepper answered and when seemed to about to protest, she continued. "You kept it in storage with no plans to ever put it up, and I told you already it was ridiculously overpriced, but you wouldn't listen. So, during the move, I sold it to get some of the money back."

"Pepper…"

"Tony, you know Peter," Pepper steered Mr. Stark's attention to him.

Mr. Stark's eyes widened for a bit, surprised at Peter's appearance in his penthouse. Peter shrunk under the man's gaze, embarrassed that he messed up.

"Peter!" he exclaimed as the sudden surprise faded to recognition. "Did you just get here?"

Peter stiffly nodded. "Um… yeah, just a few minutes ago," he said, pointing back to the doors. "But, um, I think I made a mis—"

Mr. Stark turned back to Pepper. "Why did you sell it? I  _need_  it."

Pepper dropped her head to the side and looked on with great exasperation. "For what? You had it down in storage for ten years and you completely forgot about it until now."

"I need it to give it away."

"To whom?"

"Rhodey."

Pepper's eyes fell into slits. "Rhodes doesn't like Jackson Pollock," she said, knowingly. "I know what this is… you want to rub it into someone's face. Who?"

"Does it matter?" Mr. Stark countered, a bit frustrated. "I need it and now you sold it."

"You have more paintings," she reminded him. "Use one of those to rub into whoever's face you want to insult. Now—I have to change. Why don't you talk to Peter?" Pepper nudged to Peter before she planted a tiny kiss on Mr. Stark's temple.

She walked away, leaving Peter to receive his lecture from Mr. Stark. But, Peter decided to beat Mr. Stark to the punch. "Okay, I'm so sorry," Peter rapidly started. "Really, Mr. Stark. I didn't mean to interrupt your dinner date with Miss Potts. I… I messed up the times and… I can go right now. Yeah—I'll just go now and—"

"Whoa! Slow down, Pete," Mr. Stark stopped him. "I invited you here, remember?"

He thought he remembered correctly, but seeing the dining table set and smelling the delicious food made him question it. "But… you're having dinner with Miss Potts."

" _We_  are having dinner," Mr. Stark corrected, gesturing between them and then jerking his head in the direction Miss Potts disappeared to. "Thought you may enjoy a family dinner. Cheer you up a bit."

Peter blinked, turning to the dining room then back to Mr. Stark. The man was relaxed, a wry grin on his face as he watched Peter grasp the meaning of it.

"So… I didn't mess up the times?" Peter asked to reconfirm.

Mr. Stark nodded. "Honestly, I thought you would show up a little later," he confessed, "but Pepper has told me that not everyone likes to roll in two hours later, so…

"You're exactly where you are supposed to be," Mr. Stark reassured him. "Also, I wanted you to meet Pepper. She's been wanting to meet you for some time and I figured why not over dinner?"

"That's very kind of you, sir," Peter thanked him, the knotted feelings untangling themselves. "Are you sure though? I mean… if you want to—"

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes as he backed away, heading over to the miniature bar. "Enough kid," he said. "You leave, you'll break Pepper's heart. She's actually been looking forward to meeting you."

"Really?"

"Of course," Mr. Stark fixed himself a drink. "Want soda? Pepper purchased Coke for you."

Peter nodded. It's been a while since he had a soft drink. Mr. Stark poured the Coke and passed it to Peter. The man took a sip of his drink, sighing in satisfaction. "All right," he announced. "Why don't I give you a quick tour of the place? Come on—unglue yourself from the console and follow."

Peter didn't even realize he stuck himself to the glass table. He relaxed and let himself slide off, joining Mr. Stark as he gave the tour.

Mr. Stark eyed Peter's appearance. "Are you wearing gym clothes?"

Peter crossed his arms over his shirt, pathetically hiding it from Mr. Stark's critical eye. He hated the sound of judgment. Especially over something he had little influence over the matter. It reminded Peter of Flash Thompson bullying him over his worn-down sneakers with the soles coming super-glued together to avoid having his aunt and uncle purchase him an expensive pair when they were already tight on money. Or when Flash Thompson mocked him for his dowdy brown jumper. Or when Flash Thompson snickered when his book bag kept unzipping or ripping or when Peter had to use duct tape to seal it after the zipper gave up. Basically any time Flash belittled him for his poverty-status.

He knew, deep down, that wasn't what Mr. Stark was trying to do. Yet, it was all Peter heard. "They're clean."

"I'm not doubting they're clean," Mr. Stark said. "I'm wondering why you are wearing them."

"It's all I have."

"That are clean?"

Peter shook his head, face heating in embarrassment. "I don't own anything else," he explained, grumbling. "I only have three outfits and all of them are basically gym clothes."

Mr. Stark spun right in front of Peter, coming to a halt. "Wait—you're telling me you don't have a pair of jeans here?"

"Was I supposed to?" Peter wondered if he missed a part of his orientation at the Compound.

Mr. Stark looked aghast as he pulled out his phone, typing rapidly. "That's ridiculous! First the bedroom and now this?" he muttered from the corner of his mouth. "Why didn't you say something at the beginning?" He tapped and finished. "FRIDAY? Order Peter an entire wardrobe."

"Will that be all, boss?" FRIDAY voice replied.

"No—that's not," Peter jumped in, trying to stop Mr. Stark. "It's okay, Mr. Stark. Really! I'm fine with the clothes. I don't need—"

Mr. Stark looked sharply at him. "They're gym clothes, Peter," he said. "Not day clothes or pajamas. Definitely not dinner attire either, but…" He wrinkled his nose at the grey sweatpants and long sleeve shirt. "… they'll have to do until FRIDAY orders you new clothes."

"But—"

"Stop arguing. Deal is done," Mr. Stark declared, turning his back. "Now—this is the living room…"

Mr. Stark gave Peter the grand tour. The penthouse had three floors. The main floor contained the basic rooms of a house: living room, kitchen, dining room, two  _full_  bathrooms and the nook with the grand piano. Each room dressed with the same elegant, but minimalistic furnishings. The upper level was the master bedroom and Mr. Stark had no intentions of showing upstairs. They detoured to the lower level which contained a private gym with a boxing ring in the center, a wine cellar and a library with a private collection of rare books. Every room he walked in was worth twenty-five times more than the apartment he and Aunt May shared. Even the glass he drank his coke out of appeared to be crystal glass.

They climbed up the stairs to the main level and then Mr. Stark dragged Peter over to the elevator again. "Onto the best part of the tour," he announced, ordering FRIDAY to take them to the garage. "Yeah, kid. It's a secret entrance."

The elevator dropped them off and opened. It was a good thing he stuck to surfaces or else the crystal glass containing his drink would have shattered and spilled all over.

"W—Wha… what?" Peter gasped, eyes enlarged as he staggered into the room. " _What_?"

The entire floor stretched out before him with a single, lit up path that went between two rows of both vintage and modern cars. At the end of the room was a ramp, leading up out of the room to what Peter figured was outside. But, he didn't even cared about that. His eyes were on all the lavished and exquisite vehicles.

"It's my collections of cars," Mr. Stark said, walking passed Peter as he leaned up against the orange Audi R8. "Take great pride in these puppies. Work on them a lot, fixing them here and there... do you drive? How old do you have to be to get a licenses?"

"Just in parking lots," Peter said, softly as his legs carried him to the cars. "And I'm not old enough for a licenses. Gotta be sixteen."

Peter walked down the florescent lit path, envious of the Shelby Cobra, Saleen S7 and Tesla Roadster that were parked before him. He and Ned, when they were little, pretended they would grow up rich and driving all the fanciest cars rich people were supposed to drive. Obviously, it was only a fantasy. Peter never expected to own even a car let alone an expensive sports car. Nor did he ever anticipated to be next to a 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster.

He stopped, admiring the car's flaming colors on the sides and the exposed engine. Like any roadster back in that era, the car was not weather protected—no coverings, exposed red, leather seats and a small, added windshield that would not hold up much protection on a windy day. Still, Peter couldn't stop staring it. It was the coolest car. The bright red and gold colors, clashing with the black reminded Peter of a hotrod.

Mr. Stark came up to him. "Got your eye on the big prize, huh?" he said with a sly smile. "It was my old man's Roadster. He used to have me work on it with him. Our only father-son bonding time. Never finished it though. Still fine-tuning it. Here and there. Whenever I get the chance."

Peter tilted his head, examining the engine. "Have you driven it yet?"

"No. I haven't taken it anywhere. Still needs work," Mr. Stark said. "A few more upgrades and tweaks need to be made."

Peter squatted by the engine. "Is that a five-speed Tremec transmission?"

Mr. Stark looked surprised. "Yeah, it is," he said, impressed. "Put it in myself. It can go as fast as 6,200 rpm."

"6,200 rpm?" Peter wowed, mouth dropping in awe. "70 mph. That's fast for a Roadster. You upgraded the brakes?"

"Naturally," Mr. Stark said, still holding that impressed smile. "Original, but readjusted to work with the new speed."

"What about…"

And they went on, discussing the car and all the upgrades Mr. Stark made to the vehicle. Most of the parts were the original parts, only upgraded to be better. Mr. Stark explained all the upgrades and Peter was able to follow along, even questioning some of the decisions Mr. Stark made for the car.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Stark and Peter stood over the car, tools in hand as they dug deep into the workings of Ford Roadster. Dinner forgotten until FRIDAY called over their heads.

"Boss? Miss Potts says dinner is starting and that you better not have any oil or grease stains," FRIDAY said, to which Mr. Stark immediately did a quick inspection.

"I think we narrowly dodged that kid," Mr. Stark said as he put the tools away and led Peter back to the elevator. "Probably best we wash our hands once we get back to the main floor."

Miss Potts was waiting for them. She only took one look at them before directing them to the bathroom to wash their hands. Already, she knew they were tinkering with the cars. FRIDAY probably told her.

Once cleaned, Peter sat in the directed seat. Miss Potts sat at the head of the table with Mr. Stark opposite of Peter. The spread of food looked delicious. The main course was a garlic and rosemary balsamic roast with baked red potatoes, mixed fruit and they each had individual bowls of salad—with dressing of their choosing.

It was the fanciest meal Peter ever saw, and that included Thanksgiving at Ned's house where Ned's mother slaved away in the kitchen for days in preparation.

"Wow," Peter ogled at all the food. "This looks wonderful, Miss Potts."

Pepper flashed a smile at him. "Wish I could take credit, but that belongs to Chef Laurent," she answered. "But I did pick out the food choices. If I let Tony decide, it would be coffee."

"I would give the kid sustenance," Mr. Stark defended himself. "Like… pizza? Or Chinese?"

Pepper arched a knowingly brow at him. "Take-out?"

"Well, I don't know how to make dumplings," Mr. Stark said. "Besides, the point of Chinese is ordering it in. Back me up on this, Underoos."

Peter, not wishing to be in the middle, slightly favored both sides. "Take-out is great, but I imagine home-cooked food is healthier."

Mr. Stark narrowed his gaze at him, shaking his head. "Don't go sucking up to Pepper," he playfully warned. "She hates it."

"No, I love it," Pepper intervened on her behalf, pleased. "Here, Peter. Hand me your plate."

Peter found his plate overloaded with the slices of roast and an army of red potatoes. His mixed berries mingled on the outskirts of the plate, huddled away from the sauce that dripped over the meat. The sweet aroma of the door surged Peter to pick up the fork and chow down.

He remembered his manners though. He waited until everyone had something on his plate and that Pepper had the first bite. His aunt and uncle always told him politeness would take him far.

They started to eat and the meat was so tender it melted in Peter's mouth. He nearly groaned in delight, but withheld it to avoid embarrassment. He scarfed up the meat in seconds before helping himself another slab.

Pepper took a bite of her potatoes. "So, Peter?" she addressed him. "Tony tells me you are quite a genius. Says you are a particularly skilled engineer."

Peter flushed and glanced across the table at Mr. Stark. The man kept a wry smile as he chewed. "Oh, um, I'm… I'm okay—"

"Kid's a prodigy," Mr. Stark spoke up, dabbing his mouth with a cloth napkin. "Understood quantum physics without me dumbing it down. Created his own web fluid with just a few chemicals from his school—the one with the extremely high tensile score that I showed you.  _And_  he corrected the drone design in a matter of minutes. Our senior engineers couldn't even do that! It's why I swept him up as an intern so quickly." Mr. Stark stabbed a fork in his direction. "This one shows great promises."

Peter sunk a little further into his seat, rolling in his lips as he averted his gaze elsewhere. "A lot of people my age can do all that stuff," he tried to humbly brush away the compliments. "I know a few kids that could find the issue with the drone and fix it."

"But in three minutes?" Mr. Stark challenged, "Seriously Pepper, the kid could blow your mind. He's just as smart as I was at that age. That's telling you something."

"And he's far more humble than you—now  _that's_  telling me something," Pepper joked, looking back at Peter. "Tony told me you're from New York. Where?"

"Um… Queens," he answered. "Forest Hills."

"And you attended school there?"

"Midtown," Peter said, but the brief pause afterward made him remember that she may not know the school. "It's a STEM school out in Queens."

"I know Midtown," Pepper said, looking more impressed. "It's a prestigious school. Their graduates are highly recognized for their aptitude in science and technology. They've asked Stark Industries to sponsor one of their technology fairs."

"Did we?" Mr. Stark asked.

"We sent money and a few engineers to represent," Pepper answered. "You were more focused on the Stark Expo to be bothered."

"That we also host in Queens," Mr. Stark chipped in, dashing a quick look at Peter. "Gotta lot of history out there."

Peter remembered that Expo. The drones going out of control, firing on civilians as they stampeded out for survival. Peter lost his grip on his aunt's hand, engulfed and spat out by the crowd. He remembered the feeling of confusion and worry, but when the drone came for him, it evaporated. He knew what to do. He saw Iron Man do it. He had Iron Man's blaster too.

He remembered raising his hand and the drone blasting apart.

_"Nice work, kid_."

"Are you on scholarship?"

Pepper was talking. To him.

"Sorry?" he said, sitting up straighter and pulling himself out of his memories to focus on the present.

"Midtown is quite pricey," Pepper repeated for him. "Are you on a scholarship? Are they giving you financial aid?"

"Um… yeah," he answered, curious as to how she knew money was tight for his family. "I mean, my aunt and uncle were prepared to take on extra jobs if I didn't get the financial aid. But… I got it and so I was able to go without being a burden."

Pepper's kind and intrigued expression melted into a morose sympathy. "I doubt they ever thought that," she said. "I'm sure they're extremely proud of you and your accomplishments."

Peter liked to think so. He wouldn't know as his aunt didn't pick up the phone.

Mr. Stark coughed a bit, gathering attention to him. "Do you watch the Knicks, kid?"

And they dove into typical dinner formation. They ate and talked, much like Peter did at home. Miss Potts was quick in her rebuttals as Mr. Stark was in his repartee. Peter tagged along when appropriate, but he far more enjoyed their banters than participating. Peter helped Ms. Potts clear the plates and offered to do the dishes, but Pepper informed him that it wasn't necessary. After all, they had a smart-dishwasher that could do it without much assistance from a human. Peter was amazed! He never lived in an apartment with a dishwasher, let alone a smart one!

They moved to the living room and Pepper asked if he played piano after catching him staring at grand piano tucked away into the nook. Peter shook his head. "I played the trumpet in school," he responded to Pepper's inquiry, "… and not very well."

He took a seat on one of the couches. "Erm… do you play?"

Pepper laughed. "No… I don't play."

Then that left… "Mr. Stark?" Peter somewhat yelped. " _You_  play piano?"

"What's with the surprise?" Mr. Stark questioned with that same wry grin peeking out as he refilled his glass. He offered Peter another refresher, but Peter shook his head. Too full for more soda.

"I just… can't see you playing piano," Peter confessed and he really didn't. Couldn't picture either Tony Stark or Iron Man at a piano.

Mr. Stark settled beside Pepper on the couch opposite of Peter. "Yeah, well, your instincts are correct. I don't play."

"Oh."

"That piano belonged to my mother," Mr. Stark continued. His wicked, sharp eyes softened to a fondness of longing. Peter knew those eyes. He's seen those same eyes on himself. "She used to play. All the time. Loved it. There's a lot of fond memories of my mother playing songs. Music everywhere in the house."

Mr. Stark tipped the glass, but didn't drink the full contents. "That is until my father told her to stop playing. Needed to concentrate on something or… whatever."

Peter heard rumors of the Howard Stark being a cold and difficult man. A titan, who had no problem screwing people over to get what he wanted. Yet, sometimes, Peter had a hard time picturing it. Howard Stark was good friends with Captain America. History captured pictures of them together and Peter didn't believe a man like Captain America would be good friends with a man like that.

Then again, Peter never met the man and knew nothing. To be safe, best to not bring up Mr. Stark's dad at all.

"Wish I was musically talented," Peter offered as a way to redirect it away from that sore topic. "But, it's just not in the genes."

Mr. Stark snorted. "Were you hoping that spider-bite would grant you musical powers too?"

Peter half-shrugged, his lips tugging up. "Would be a nice addition, though," he said. "Maybe get on Broadway?"

Pepper laughed and Mr. Stark ridiculously rolled his eyes. And the rest of the night

They conversed, talking about a range of subjects. Pepper asked of his friends, to which Peter proudly bragged about Ned and MJ to her. He rambled on forever about how talented Ned was with computers and how he could hack and debug anything in front of him in seconds. He spoke of MJ, his recent friend, and her determination for social justice.

Pepper sounded impressed, noting they must be good friends for Peter to speak highly of them. They were good friends. The best.

Mr. Stark was far more interested in Peter's brain, diving right into quantum physics and the potential possibilities. They discussed and debated of the prospective technology quantum physics could bring, to which Mr. Stark was surprised by Peter's reciting of a quote from Dr. Reed Richards' academic essay on the matter.

"My dad knew of a guy—Hank or Han or something," Mr. Stark said, the center of his eyebrow creased in deep concentration. "Thought it was possible to actually enter the quantum realm through the use of cross particles. And, of course, some kind of technology that would assist, but… he disappeared. Took all the information and fled."

Peter paused. "… you mean Dr. Henry Pym?"

Mr. Stark snapped his fingers. "That's the one. Him! Yeah… he hated my dad's guts," he said, a whimsical smile growing with delighted specks of light in his eyes. "Would have liked to have met. Formed a club. Would have irritated the hell out of my dad."

They went back to talking, eagerly swapping out theories and inventions. Pepper attempted to interrupt their geek-out session, but Mr. Stark whined. "What? There are very few people—if any, come to think of it—that actually speaks English."

Pepper only looked at him with accepted exasperation. "Fine. I'll let you two boys fawn over your mutual love," she joked, rising up from her couch. She took away Mr. Stark's glass. "Anyway, I have paperwork I need to review before the meeting tomorrow, so I best finish that first."

Peter got up to thank her for the meal and conversation. Pepper tilted her chin down, examining him with quiet, but warm attention. "I'm glad to have met you, Peter," she said. "If you ever need anything, let me know. Or tell FRIDAY to inform me. You're always welcomed here."

Peter won't lie. Pepper's warm embrace caused Peter's insides to flutter and a giddy smile to brighten his face. To be accepted—wanted—had been almost became foreign to him since his residence at the Compound. To have Pepper say those words and then hug him goodnight, was something unexpected, but welcomed.

Pepper warned Mr. Stark to not stay up too late. And to not take Peter back down to the garage. No need to overwork the boy, as she said.

Mr. Stark promised and they went back to their previous discussion on the creation of using quantum physics as a way to travel through space and time. Peter found the possibility a bit ludicrous as it would be difficult to even get to the quantum realm, let along navigate it. There was a high risk of getting stuck in there forever. A version of Purgatory.

"That's why we need to upgrade the tech," Mr. Stark argued. "If we can replicate Harry's—"

"Dr. Pym's," Peter automatically corrected.

"Don't interrupt me," Mr. Stark waved his hand in dismissal. "Once we replicate it, we can easily use it to travel into the realm. And, if we can do it to a person, we can do it with an object."

"So… miniaturize everything into a quantum realm?" Peter summarized. "We don't even know how stable it is. Could possibly reject any interference. What if a radio wave or something interferes?"

"Well, if you keep looking at it from a negative viewpoint, kid, you are never going to do it," Mr. Stark snipped. "Stop thinking over everything that can go wrong and think of everything that could happen if done? It's why we do any of this right? See how far we can test the limits? Make things better, right?"

Peter bobbed his head in thought. "Yeah… true," he murmured his agreement. Science was all about understanding the world around them and finding ways to make it better. "But… if we don't take responsibilities—"

Mr. Stark's phone rang out. "Hold that thought," he said, sliding his phone out to view the screen. The deep crevice between the man's eyebrows meant it was someone of importance. "I got to take this call. Just… hold on. We'll finish this when I come back."

Mr. Stark disappeared down the stairs, leaving Peter alone in the main floor. Peter sat for a few minutes before deciding to stretch his legs. He walked around the room, checking the art, the few framed photographs of Mr. Stark and Pepper through the years. He stood by the piano for a bit, trying again to picture Mr. Stark running his fingers down the keys. Then again, maybe Mr. Stark hadn't ever touched the piano since his mother's passing. Mr. Stark seemed to love her very much. As much as Peter loved his aunt.

Peter wondered if he would have loved his own mother the same way if she never died.

Feeling all angsty and depressed, Peter went back to the couch. He laid on his side, trying his best to not think of his dead family. He wondered if Mr. Stark ever got cramps from thinking about his family. Did he miss them as much as Peter missed his? At least Mr. Stark had fond memories of his mother. Peter's memories… they were streaked with tragedy and blood.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he woke to whispers around him and he noticed the lights on the main floor were dimmed to a respectable darkness.

"—send him back to his room?" whispered a voice behind him. Peter recognized that as being Mr. Stark. He must have finished his phone call.

"He's asleep already," came a new voice. Female. Pepper. "I told you not to keep him up late."

"I had a phone call to take," Mr. Stark defended. "Besides, I was gone for thirty minutes. Tops! Came back and he was already asleep."

"So… you dragged me out of bed to do what?" Pepper sounded irritated. "To wake him up only to send him back down to his own bed?"

"Well… yeah. I mean… it can't be all that comfortable to sleep on the couch."

"You've slept in worse places."

"But a bed is far better," Tony argued. "I mean, his room is just downstairs."

"How many floors?"

"I don't know."

A long sigh was released. Pattering footsteps could be heard moving around behind him. Cabinets were being opened. Then something was thrown over his body. Something warm and fuzzy.

"There," Pepper's voice returned. "At least he won't get cold."

"So that's it?" Mr. Stark questioned. "We're just going to let him sleep? On the couch?"

"Unless you want to carry him to one of the guest bedrooms on the other floors?"

There was a short pause. "Nah—Underoos can stay here for the night."

"Good answer," Pepper replied, still in soft tones that reminded Peter of his aunt. "Come on. Let's not disturb him."

There was a brief commotion of feet moving across the wood floors. Peter snapped his eyes closed, relying on his other senses to paint the picture for him.

"He looks so innocent," came Pepper's voice, somewhere from above. She must be on the staircase.

"Yeah," Mr. Stark agreed, his voice in the same direction. "I don't know how he does it. I don't know how he isn't screwed up."

"He was loved," Pepper simply whispered in response. "It must be hard for him to be alone. To have no one—"

"He has us."

Peter almost jerked, but kept his body still. He tried to keep his breathing normal. Steady and slow. Deep and slumber. Mr. Stark considered him—Peter Parker—as someone important. He was included to their weird, mash-up of an Avengers family.

"It's still not the same," Pepper solemnly whispered in return, "but it is better than being alone."

"Exactly," Mr. Stark said, "now… let's stop staring at the baby. Don't want him to wake up and see us staring right at him. That'll give him nightmares."

Peter heard a small pat that was probably a light slap on Mr. Stark's arm. "Oh—FRIDAY? Let us know when Mr. Parker wakes up?"

FRIDAY confirmed the request. Peter heard move shuffling movement. "Good night, Peter," said Mr. Stark and based off the sound, Peter suspected Mr. Stark ascended up the stairs with Pepper. He heard the sound of a door opening and closing. He waited a few more minutes before he opened his eyes again, adjusting to the pitch darkness.

The blanket fully covered him and Peter tugged it closer to his chin, clutching it. How strange it was for him to start the day with no family to answer and then to end in a billionaire's home, overhearing Iron Man tell his fiancé that Peter was one of them. That Peter was a member of their misfit family.

It gave Peter some happier thoughts before he drifted back to sleep.


	16. Royally Screwed

As promised, Peter’s dull prison morphed into an actual teenager’s bedroom. Mr. Stark’s interior decorator took notes on Peter’s personal interest and style to accommodate his image. It all happened quickly too. Peter returned from schooling to find his room resembling almost his old bedroom. The empty bookcase was stuffed with an array of science-fiction, classics and non-fiction books on the greatest minds in history. His walls were adorned with two posters: a silly Albert Einstein one that Peter didn’t particular care about and then another poster, which was a framed, original Star Wars poster. The best part—it was autographed by the three main actors.

“Ned would be so jealous right now,” Peter mumbled to himself, wishing he could take a snapshot of it to send to his friend.

Thankfully, Mr. Stark followed up on his promise to not go overboard. Everything was basic and meant to bring a homier vibe to the room. Peter quite liked it. He kind of wished it was his actual bedroom.

The clothes came in on the same day too. His wardrobe tripled in size. He had jeans, shorts, trousers, T-shirts, dress shirts, hoodies, sweaters and even a suit jacket with three silk ties. For what occasion would he need those, Peter didn’t know. The ties felt and looked fancy. He put one on, trying to remember what a knotted tie looked like, but soon gave up when all he did was wrinkle it. Another time.

To his surprise, Peter spent most of his days with Mr. Stark. Either in the lab or in general. On weekends, Peter joined Mr. Stark and Miss Potts for family dinners. It became normal for Peter to walk in without an invitation. It was even more normal for him to stay up late with Mr. Stark after dinner to work on the cars in the secret garage. Peter enjoyed getting his clothes and skin stained with oil and grease as he learned the inner-workings on different vehicles. By far, his favorite was the hotrod roadster that Mr. Stark claimed needed more work before being able to drive. Peter thought it was good as it was, but Mr. Stark always found something that needed work.

A few times, Mr. Stark’s friends joined them at dinner. Colonel James Rhodes was a normal visitor to the penthouse. He asked Peter how he was getting along and if Mr. Stark treated him well, which Peter wondered why the man kept asking him that. Mr. Stark wondered that as well.

“He’s fine, Rhodey,” Mr. Stark piped. “Look! See? Young, healthy and still alive.”

“Probably because of Pepper’s interference,” Col. Rhodes quipped in return. The man turned to Peter. “Don’t let him drag you around, okay? Has anyone told you his nickname?”

Peter shook his head. He figured Iron Man was the nickname. Or Boss, like FRIDAY calls him. Also, he didn't think anyone would dare give Mr. Stark a nickname. 

“It’s Mr. Stank,” Col. Rhodes said with a fun smile. “Gotta call him that around the—”

“Hey—hey… don’t corrupt my kid,” Mr. Stark interrupted, pulling Peter away from his friend. “Don’t listen to Rhodey. He's ill. Not right in the mind."

Col. Rhodes ignored Mr. Stark and entertained Peter with more embarrassing tales of Mr. Stark's life, particularly when the Mr. Stark was a young student at MIT. Peter couldn't believe half of what happened, but Col. Rhodes insisted it was all true. Mr. Stark denied everything. 

Peter also got to know Mr. Stark's shadow or "forehead of security" as Mr. Stark liked to sometimes title his bodyguard/driver/friend. But Happy Hogan only grumbled at the nickname before he pretended not to hear Mr. Stark asking for him to pick up lunch for him.

Peter learned Happy was a former boxer before he became a full-time bodyguard for Mr. Stark. He was recruited by Mr. Stark after he watched Happy lose a match against a younger boxer. Happy didn't want to go into details about that aspect of his life. Despite the lack of friendly demeanor and the constant groans, Happy was willing to teach Peter some boxing moves. Granted—not with him, but with an Everlast punching bag. 

Mr. Stark suggested that Peter may learn better with an actual person rather than a punching bag. Happy thought otherwise.

"I'm not going up against a person who could take out Cap," was Happy's comment, but Peter didn't know what he meant by that. 

Peter made sure to not go full strength on the bag. At the beginning of his training with Reynolds, he punctured three bags before Reynolds stopped him altogether from using them. Happy taught him the jab and the cross maneuvers, along with keeping his fists raised to protect the sides of his head. 

"See here?" Happy tapped to the side of Peter's head. "One punch there and you're out. You want that?"

"No."

"Then fists up!"

Mr. Stark sometimes joined as he also practiced mixed marital arts with Happy. Although Happy hated it when Mr. Stark brought in the martial arts into the boxing ring. He called it 'dirty fighting'. Mr. Stark called it improvisation. 

"Gotta learn to fight in any way you can," Mr. Stark instructed as Peter hung outside the ropes, watching him and Happy swap hits. "Your enemies don't fight with honor. They fight to win."

Happy looked to the ceiling in exasperation before he shot a look at Peter to ignore Mr. Stark's pointers. 

When not in the boxing ring or faced with a giant punching bag, Peter and Happy were seated right next to each other in a car. Mr. Stark issued driving lessons for him, mortified that Peter didn't know how to drive properly. Peter was stoked. He originally thought he would be test driving one of Mr. Stark's cars, but that hope deflated when he saw Happy with a basic Sedan. He should have known he wouldn't ever get the chance to drive one of Mr. Stark's luxury cars. 

Happy's style of teaching was not the same as May's instructions. She was patient and slow, talking softly as she told Peter where to grab the wheel and when to hit the brakes gently. Happy was more volatile. He panicked. A lot. Even when Peter wasn't moving the car at all, Happy was huffing and puffing like his heart was under attack. His instructions were blunt and clipped, pointing rather than saying. It was a difficult first day and Happy swore to Mr. Stark he would not ride with Peter again. 

Nonetheless, they got back into the car the next day. Mostly because Mr. Stark said so, despite both of their protests.

"Why can't you teach me?" Peter whined, not wanting to get back in the driver's seat with Happy as his instructor. 

"Because I don't let others drive me," Mr. Stark said, pushing Peter toward Happy and the car. 

Then what was the point of Happy? Peter thought as he ducked into the driver's seat once again. 

Vision floated in and out of Peter's life as well. He always joined Peter whenever he was in the library, fascinated with whatever Peter studied. He engaged and discussed different theories on physics, chemistry and biology. More importantly, Vision was intrigued with Peter's view of the world. The android always found Peter's views fascinating and a tad optimistic, which Vision claimed was a good thing.

“Optimism defines the very future of the world,” Vision recited with a hum.

Vision's obsession with the future bewildered Peter, especially Vision's idea of Peter leading it. When he tried to deflect that idea, Vision acted humorous as if Peter told a funny joke. "Children are the future," was all Vision would say to him. It only made Peter’s stomach queasy. 

Besides those awkward conversations, Peter found Vision quite informative and easy to converse. And Vision always peppered him with questions and analyses on human behavior, wishing to learn more in order to adapt or “grow” as Vision said.

“I had a friend who often taught me such things,” Vision told Peter when they were walking the halls. Peter gave him a brief lesson on stereotypes. “She was very kind, but a loner. Like I was upon birth. She helped me understand.”

“What happened to her?” Peter queried as he never met the woman Vision fondly spoke of.

Vision’s eyes hooded a bit, drawn away almost. “She’s gone.”

Peter knew the agonizing feeling. The yearning, longing and the suffering were all too familiar for him. He wished it upon no one else—human and android alike. Peter extended his hand, offering friendship to the android. No one should be alone.

Outside the boys' club, Peter had Pepper. She had an uncanny ability to anticipate every need of his. Like when he was composing his literature essay on  _East of Eden_  and he felt a twitch of a hunger spike, Pepper came shortly into the room with an orange and granola bar. Or when the AC was blowing so much cold air in the vent that before Peter could ask to raise the thermostat, Pepper came in and draped a blanket over his shoulders. It got Peter to believe she was telepathic, until Pepper laughingly dismissed the notion.

“After being Tony’s assistant for so long,” Pepper said to him one day, “I learned a thing or two about anticipating another’s needs before they even know it.”

That made sense in Peter’s mind. He imagined being Mr. Stark’s assistant wasn’t an easy task, especially even before he became Iron Man. Now, she was CEO of the greatest tech company in the world. And, she would sometimes steal Peter away from Mr. Stark (“He’s not your personal intern, Tony. He’s the company’s intern.”). She took him under her wing, having him shadow her as she ran Stark Enterprises. Pepper believed it was important for him to see both sides of how a business runs, and not only focused on developing new tech. They spent entire business days in her office. Peter met board members, listened in on conferences and learned how to negotiate, market and even give back to the community through charities, outreach and participation.

“I wish I could actually visit Stark Tower,” Peter wishfully commented. “Is it anything like Oscorp, Ms. Potts?”

“Pepper, Peter,” she amended on his behalf, “and no. Nothing like Oscorp or Hammer Industries. Stark Industries is one of a kind. I’ll check in with Tony to see if we can set up a visit. Although, we’ll probably lose you on the R&D floors.”

Peter’s eyes rounded. “There’s more than one floor?!”

Despite the teasing promises to visit Stark Industries and see everything, Peter settled on using Mr. Stark’s workshop. At first, Peter was only allowed entry if Mr. Stark was with him, but eventually, Mr. Stark bestowed him with some privileges. Peter was granted access to the workshop without Mr. Stark’s presence as long as Mr. Stark approved it. He was only allowed to work on Stark internship projects and nothing else. So, naturally, Peter used that alone time in the workshop to craft his secret suit.

It was late, one afternoon when Peter got permission from Mr. Stark to be alone in the workshop. He finished his afternoon practice with his team, skipping showers all together to race up to the workshop to get started. He pulled out his notebook, flipping through the pages to get him back to the latest design. He had been working diligently on his new suits, taking cues from Mr. Stark's suits and their discussions on different fighting techniques. Peter jotted notes down to incorporate different items into a suit. A suit that would make his old one look like pajamas—or a onesie as Mr. Stark liked to call it.

With this new, high-tech suit, he could become more. Not Spider-boy or Spiderling. No one would mistake him as some minor league vigilante. No one would look at him like a kid. But an actual Avenger. _The Amazing Spider-man!_

He was certain his creation would impress Mr. Stark, but at the moment, he kept it a secret. No need to show it to Iron Man until it was all finished. Until then, Mr. Stark and everyone else could not know what Peter was building behind their backs. 

DUM-E, Peter’s partner-in-crime, nudged him a little in greeting. “Oh, hey there, buddy,” Peter patted the robot. “Sorry—I don’t have a coat on me. You don’t have to take my bag. Don’t… fine. Take it.”

DUM-E whirled as it spun Peter’s backpack away, carrying it off to be hung with the rest of Mr. Stark’s coats, scarves and whatnots. Peter found his page in the notebook and gathered up the necessary tools. He had his own workshop table, cluttered with miscellaneous items that Peter worked on for Stark Industries or for Mr. Stark. But, he shoved those aside to make room on his newest project—repulsors!

Peter spent countless hours trying to come up with repulsors that wouldn’t interfere with his webbing or his ability to stick onto surfaces. He knew repulsors weren’t necessary, but he couldn’t stop the idea of flying gnawing on his brain. No harm in trying to find a way to incorporate into his suit designs. That was how Peter saw it. He wanted to fly like Iron Man. Joined him up in the blue skies. Maybe even travel around the world. Reach for the stars…

Okay… he was getting carried away. Space was an complete different arena. 

Peter studied several different specs of Mr. Stark’s repulsors, coming up with the idea of compacting it into a gadget attached to him. Possibly in the soles, but that may make it clunky when he moved. Peter needed his suit to be flexible and light so that it wouldn’t hinder his spider abilities. So, he developed it through a singular gadget. Just as a practice run before trying to imbue it with his suit (once he works his way into getting the necessary fabric).  

His main concern at the moment was his need to figure out how to harness and control the energy to do what was needed. He already built his mini-version of the repulsor, but the concept to get it to stabilize was what worried Peter. He needed to do a practice run. A test try. And the only place he could do it was in the workshop.

Like any scientist, Peter cleared the area to make room for his trial run. He had to be careful because Mr. Stark believed he was working on his internship duties. And none of those assignments required unstable particles of energy.

DUM-E circled him, whining as he followed Peter around the workshop. It sounded like it was in distress, its robotic arm kept swinging over to the nearest fire extinguisher.

“That’s not necessary,” Peter told DUM-E. “I’m not going to blow up the place. But if it makes you feel better…”

That was all DUM-E needed to hear before it wheeled over to the fire extinguisher and snatched it up in its claw.

That’s encouraging, Peter meekly thought as he latched the repulsor gadget on his hand. DUM-E rolled around him, whining and its robotic claw poised and ready to put out a fire.

“Give me some space, Dum-E,” Peter advised. “Don’t want you to get hurt.”

DUM-E made some disapproving noise. Even FRIDAY spoke up.

“ _I do not think this is a good idea, Peter_ ,” FRIDAY’s voice rang out overhead. “ _Boss would not want you to injure yourself.”_

“I’ll be fine,” Peter promised them as he situated himself. “I have it all under control.”

DUM-E moved away, giving Peter the space needed to launch his test. He nervously breathed out, looking over at DUM-E, who watched from the sidelines, claw askew. “Wish me luck, buddy.”

DUM-E tooted.

Peter breathed deeply. “Okay… okay, let’s do this,” he muttered to himself as he clicked on the gadget.

It came alive, glowing as a whirling sound came overly vocal.

Careful… careful… Peter repeatedly told himself as he stuck out his hand, watching the gadget turn from white to a bit blue. Peter swore his heart was bursting out of his chest as he braced himself for the flight test.

Just a little nudge, Peter reminded to himself. No need to crash into the ceiling.

He raised his arm a little, projecting a nudge to lift him off his feet and float a little above the floor. At least, that was the objective.

The repulsor ray brightened and the sound turned into a whizzing before an eruption of bursting fire. Peter flew up, far more than he wanted. In his shock, he jerked his hand again. Big mistake.

He felt his body twist, a mass of energy shooting him right into his stomach. He soared across the workshop, crash-landing into one of Mr. Stark’s shelving units. He cratered in the middle, knocking the whole unit down as boxes and objected rained down on him. Schematics, diagrams, tools and spare parts all dumped on him, nearly burying him.

The rattling noise grew loud, but went silent real quick.

It took Peter another moment to overcome the shock. He lay there, amongst the heap of mess, as he gasped for breath. It took another frantic second to confirm that he wasn’t dead. He was still him, albeit, slightly injured and stunned.

“Whoa… that was scary,” Peter muttered and he looked back to his hand. His hand, luckily, wasn’t severely injured. Only a minor burn. The gadget, however, was completely busted. Nearly destroyed.

That was disappointing. He must have gotten the wiring wrong. Or overstimulated the device when he accidentally jerked. He undid the gadget from his hand and began to remove all the fallen objects off him, trying to get back up.

As he pulled himself out of the wreckage, a blast of cold substance blew right in his face. Peter jerked back, throwing his hands up to shield himself until the spray ended.

Peter reopened his eyes and found himself covered with AFFF foam. He almost resembled a yeti from all the white froth that outlined his entire body. Peter turned, wiping the foam off his face as he glared at the instigator.

“DUM-E…”

DUM-E was holding the fire extinguisher, tooting happily like he miraculously saved Peter’s life. Peter reached for the robot, using DUM-E to help stable himself as he climbed out of the mess. He needed to clear all this up before Mr. Stark finds out.

“What the _HELL_ happened?”

Peter’s whole body went rigid. That was Mr. Stark. That was definitely his voice. Definitely the sound of his marching feet coming closer. Definitely his grip on Peter’s shoulders before being spun around to face him.

And that was _definitely_ Mr. Stark’s angry face. His eyes were dark, face burning and his mouth a taut line of fury. Peter had the sudden urge to make a run for it, but Mr. Stark already captured him in a strong clutch. There was no way he would ever escape this disaster.

Mr. Stark’s furrowed eyebrows nearly touched each other as he examined the wreckage of his workshop. “What did you do?” he snapped. “You blew up my workshop!”

“I-I…”

Mr. Stark wasn’t listening to him. He stood, seething as he looked over Peter to the wreckage the boy caused. All those parts, tools and diagrams torn and ruined. Ideas lost and possibly thousands—no, millions!—of dollars destroyed. And Peter caused all of it.

“I’m sorry.”

Mr. Stark’s dark eyes snapped to Peter. “You say that a lot,” he grunted, pushing Peter aside to examine the smashed equipment from where Peter collided. “What happened?”

Peter’s legs trembled. “I-I was just trying to, um… I was testing out something. It backfired, but I didn’t—”

“Testing what?” Mr. Stark demanded. “I don’t remember giving you anything that required testing something that would set off a bomb.”

“It’s wasn’t a bomb.”

Mr. Stark gestured to the wreckage. “Looks like it to me,” he coldly remarked. “What were you doing? What’s in your hand?”

Peter dropped his gaze to his hand. He was still holding onto the broken gadget. Before Peter could move it behind his back in a lame attempt to hide it, Mr. Stark wrenched it out of his hands. Mr. Stark raised it up to his face, peering it with an inquisitive examination. 

His intelligent eyes darkened. “You were replicating one of my repulsor rays?”

No words uttered from Peter’s mouth. He remained in complete terror.

Mr. Stark didn’t appreciate the silence. “Answer me, Peter!”

Peter gulped, his throat sore. “I… I… it wasn’t—yes.”

Mr. Stark frowned, turning back to the destroyed gadget. His fingers brushing up against the charred edges. “Why?”

Peter shrugged.

“That’s not an answer!” Mr. Stark reproached, a vein bulging on the side of his neck. “Tell me the truth, Peter. Why did you try to replicate my repulsors?”

Peter’s heart was nearly bursting out of chest. He was afraid of Mr. Stark. He didn’t think the man would physically hurt or even kill him, but the anger in the man’s eyes told Peter he was in serious trouble. Enough trouble to even get his privileges revoked. Or worse, he would be kicked out of Mr. Stark’s good graces forever. Be back to his regular routine of being trapped with Mr. Reynolds and his teammates. Mr. Stark may even stop his assistance in getting him back to Aunt May!

Mr. Stark stepped closer to Peter. His eyes locked on him. “Peter…”

“I was trying to be better!”

That burst of an explanation threw Mr. Stark back. The man leaned away, eyebrows shot up in bafflement and mouth agape in complete surprise.

“What?”

Peter berated himself. He shouldn’t have said that. “I mean… I just wanted to build something of my own. To use as… as Spider-man.”

Mr. Stark’s face remained puzzled. His eyes narrowed in thought, trying to connect with everything happening with Peter’s words. Then, his mouth went to a straight line. “Well, that was stupid,” he snapped. “You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“It was a mild misfire,” Peter tried to defend himself. “I made a small mistake—”

“You call millions of dollars’ worth of damages a _small_ mistake?” Mr. Stark sounded exasperated at Peter’s defense. Almost like it wasn’t even worth the time to listen. “This isn’t a small mistake! And then I come in here and find you in a middle of a disaster zone with DUM-E holding a fire extinguisher! Do you know how that looks?”

“Pretty bad?”

Mr. Stark flippantly huffed. “Yeah, short stuff, _pretty bad_ ,” he said, still heated as he looked back down at the fallen shelving unit. Peter overheard Mr. Stark grumble to himself. “Give a little and it just shoots you right back in your face.”

Guilt weighed heavily on Peter. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop saying that!” Mr. Stark rebuked. “Sorry isn’t going to cut it! You nearly got yourself killed! _Do you know that_?”

“My powers—”

“Doesn’t matter!” Mr. Stark shouted over him. “I don’t fucking care that you have super-strength or healing powers—none of that would help you if you’re dead! And I don’t need you dead!”

Peter’s whole body was vibrating now. He had never been at the end of Mr. Stark’s temper and he suddenly wanted his Aunt May. Or Pepper. She would tell him to cool down. She would defend him. Not that he didn’t rightfully deserve the reprimand, but Peter wasn’t enjoying the lecture.

Mr. Stark huffed as he snapped his fingers at DUM-E. “Put that away! You’re trigger-happy with that thing,” he said, and DUM-E mournfully tooted his obedience. Mr. Stark searched through the mess, mumbling about what was broken, salvageable, and trying to put a few of the diagrams and papers back together in the right order.

“This is a right mess,” Mr. Stark mumbled again as he climbed out of the collapsed unit. He had several items in his arms as he strode to the workbench to dump it there.

Peter stayed still, wondering if he should be going or not. Did Mr. Stark want him gone? He hadn’t said a word to him in a while. Maybe the man forgot about him? Probably best to go.

He only took one step toward the door when Mr. Stark called him out. “Ah-ah, no. You—come here,” he ordered, gesturing for Peter to come to the workbench.

Peter dragged himself over, slopping wet from the foam as he stood beside Mr. Stark. It took a maybe a minute for Mr. Stark to speak to him again. “Why Peter?”

Peter askew his face. “Huh?”

Mr. Stark let out a long sigh. “Why are you trying to replicate my suit?” he clarified his question. “Hmm? You want to fly out of here? Trying to build something to beat me?”

“What? _No_!” Peter was offended, eyes wide in hurt. “No, no, no... I was just trying to be like you! I wanted to… to make my own suit.”

That gave Mr. Stark pause. “Your own suit?”

Peter begrudgingly nodded as he took up his notebook. “I’ve been writing down some ideas.”

Mr. Stark swiped his notebook, flipping through the pages where Peter wrote down all his thoughts, ideas and designs for his Spider-man suit. He watched Mr. Stark’s hardened face soften a bit, his eyes relaxing in contemplation as he studied each page he looked through in the notebook.

The man came to the last design, looking it over before he raised his studiously gaze to Peter. “How long have you been thinking about this?”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t know. Ever since you showed me your Iron Man suits, I guess.”

“So nearly a month now,” Mr. Stark muttered, more to himself. “And what exactly is the purpose of this suit? Why are you making one?”

Again, Peter shrugged and avoided eye contact.

“Don’t retreat on me,” directed Mr. Stark. “Talk to me. Why were you building a suit?”

Peter guessed there was no way to avoid it now. Might as well come clean and damn the consequences.

“About a month ago, you told me I had to make a choice for myself,” Peter started as Mr. Stark settled an arm on the workbench, leaning in to listen. “Either stay as ‘Spider-boy’ and save kittens all day or… become ‘Spider-man’ and do more good for the world.”

Peter lifted his gaze, spying Mr. Stark's eyes fluttering in recognition of his own words. “I’ve been training. I’ve worked really hard. I took down one of your sentinel drones with one punch just the other day!” he went on, remembering how he punctured a hole right through its metal rib-cage. “I’m no longer ‘Spider-boy’. I can do more now. I can help the world! And, so, I wanted a suit that showed that I’m ready.

“That I am Spider-man.”

Peter watched Mr. Stark’s face shift. The anger he previously held seemed to have leaked out, replaced with a deeper understanding. The man looked tired, worn as if he was too old to be dealing with something he branded as childish, but to Peter, it wasn’t. It was his life. _He was Spider-man._

Mr. Stark may have been right at the beginning that he wasn’t much of a hero. Not in that onesie, but he has improved since then. He noticed the differences. He was much stronger, faster and acutely aware of his entire surroundings. His fighting abilities improved. He didn’t rely so much on his webbing anymore. His tactical maneuvers and accurate hits helped him take down many of his teammates, much to their disgruntles. The old Spider-man was gone. Spider-man 2.0 was here.

It took another long moment as Mr. Stark sat himself down on a stool. “Why didn’t you tell me this, Pete?” he questioned.

“Because I thought you wouldn’t let me.”

Mr. Stark ran a hand down his face. “Smart—I wouldn’t have let you build a suit,” he admitted. “Not without supervision.”

Peter perked up. Was he saying… “Are you saying that you would let me build a suit?”

“I’m saying that I would have considered it,” Mr. Stark corrected, “But after this incident… I’m not sure you’re even ready to have any specialized suit. Or even a mask!”

It was like another punch into his heart. Squashing it under a massive wave of rejection that it stung him enough to want to cry. He didn’t, but it hurt. The disappointment etched in Mr. Stark’s face was far worse than the anger the man had earlier.

“I trusted you, Peter,” Mr. Stark said. “I gave you access to the workshop because I believed you. I thought you were mature enough to handle yourself and to know what _not_ to do. And then you proved me wrong.”

“I didn’t mean too—”

“I know… I know,” Mr. Stark calmly stated as he massaged his temples with his fingers. “Still, you’re not ready, Peter. You have ways to go.”

Peter’s shoulders dropped. His mouth turned downward as he cast his eyes away from Mr. Stark. They were burning, filled with embarrassment and shame.

“I’m sor—”

“Don’t!” Mr. Stark said, holding out a single finger. “Don’t say it.”

Peter closed his mouth, trying to breathe through his nose with great difficulty. He knew he was in trouble. There was no denying it. And with trouble came a load of consequences. Punishments.

Mr. Stark took a deep breath and then dropped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. The man's hand squeezed gently. Almost like he was trying to give Peter some reassurance that he wasn’t furious with him. Or something akin to it.

“Okay—let’s get this over with,” Mr. Stark announced, squeezing Peter’s shoulder a little more to get the boy’s attention. “You’re suspended.”

“I’m _what_!?”

“Suspended,” Mr. Stark repeated as Peter shook his head against the idea. He couldn’t be suspended, but Mr. Stark only countered his shakes with nods. “Yeah, kid, this is a serious offense. Look—you’re not fired. You’re just not going to be able to come to the workshop for a few weeks.”

“But… what about the internship?” Peter enjoyed his internship. He loved working on algorithms, and tinkering with engines and coming up with mechanical designs with Mr. Stark. It made his days at the Compound bearable. More fun and fascinating! He can’t imagine not coming up to the workshop. Not only that, if he lost his internship, how could he help his aunt with no income? He needed that money. They needed that money! Mr. Stark had been sending depositing Peter’s internship income into his aunt’s account and if that stops… how would his aunt pay the bills? Or pay for food? Rent?

It caused Peter to panic. “Please, Mr. Stark!” he pleaded, feeling his eyes wetting. “Please… I need this internship. I can’t—”

“You still have it,” Mr. Stark reassured him. “You just won’t be working with me. Maybe Pepper will take you? But, I’m pretty positive that she’s going to be just as furious as I am when she hears what you did today.”

“…not unless you don’t tell her?” Peter hoped.

Mr. Stark gave him a doubtful look. “Oh, she’s going to hear this,” he affirmed. “I’m not going to keep this a secret from her.”

Peter sighed dejectedly, head bowed to hide his sadness from Mr. Stark. He doubted Mr. Stark wanted to deal with a crying child. It would only make the situation worse.

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, again, despite the annoyed look Mr. Stark shot at him. “I guess I’ll go.”

“Go?” Mr. Stark questioned, shaking his head. “You’re not going anywhere until that mess is cleaned up.”

Peter looked back at the wreckage he caused. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, kid. _Seriously_ ,” Mr. Stark said, standing his ground. “You made it, you clean it up.  Welcome to the adult world. Now—hop to! You can have DUM-E help since he played a part in it as well.”

DUM-E rolled right up next to Peter, chirpier than he had been. At least one of them was excited about it.

Mr. Stark gently pushed Peter toward the mess. “Start sweeping, Cinderella.”

It took Peter and DUM-E a few hours to sweep up the entire mess. It was a good thing Peter had super-strength or else it would have taken longer to lift up the broken shelving unit. The center of the shelving unit was busted, dented in from where Peter crashed. Most of the objects too were smashed to bits, but Peter tried his best to get the pieces back together, or at least, boxed together. The documentations was the hard part, trying to get all the pages matched up together. DUM-E helped moved all the boxes to the side as the unit no longer was able to hold very much by mean of storage. Only a few boxes. The rest had to be swept to the side of the workshop.

Mr. Stark never left. He stayed in the workshop, tinkering on a few things here and there. Probably to calm himself down. Like a meditation technique. Or maybe to watch Peter to make sure he didn’t screw up even more. Most likely the latter was correct.

When Peter finished, he returned to his workbench to gather his notes. Only, Mr. Stark snapped up his notebook, holding it out of reach. “I’ll keep this,” he told Peter, “if you don’t mind.”

Not that it mattered if he did. Mr. Stark wasn’t asking for permission. He was taking it. Peter reluctantly surrendered his notebook and retreated out of the workshop, backpack slugged over his shoulder. He was too afraid to ask Mr. Stark for anything. Or even to know if he was still welcomed to dinner tomorrow night as normal. Probably not.

The elevator came and Peter hurried inside. He didn’t have to say anything. FRIDAY already knew where to go. As the doors closed, Peter took a quick peak. He watched Mr. Stark stop his tinkering, falling into his stool and dropped his face in his hands. Then the door closed. The elevator moved down.

Peter royally screwed up.


	17. Grief/Fear

Peter didn’t go to dinner. He skipped out, opting to eat in the cafeteria with all the others. And by others, he means alone at his table. Everyone else sat around him, gawking and whispering. It was like that wherever he went. People stared. People whispered. It was all they did. Peter hated it. Wanted them to stop. Peter ate quickly and got out, ignoring the trail of hushed gossip following after him.

He found solace in his bedroom. Now that it was equipped with things to entertain his boredom, he didn’t feel the need to venture out to the library. He could hole up in his room, reading the books Mr. Stark purchased for him. But, even that felt like a punch in the gut.

Peter hadn’t spoken to Mr. Stark since the incident in the workshop. In fact, Peter did his best to avoid Mr. Stark whenever possible. If he thought the man may be in a certain area, he avoided it. It seemed childish, but Peter couldn’t bear to see the man’s disappointing face.

But, Peter didn’t think it was just him either. Mr. Stark hadn’t sought him out. Never attempted to make contact. Perhaps, he too was avoiding. Funny, wasn’t it? Both of them doing their best to tip-toe around each other. Avoid conflict.

How messed up was that?

Peter got back to his room, sighing out in relief to be alone. He fell back on the twin bed, rolling to his side. It’s only been two days since he blew up Mr. Stark’s workshop. Two days since his suspension. And he was bored out of his mind!

He missed the workshop. He missed tinkering on engines, drones and parts of the arc reactor that revolved around clean, renewable energy. He missed DUM-E. He missed going up to the penthouse. He missed working with Mr. Stark on the cars. He missed listening to Pepper. He missed Col. Rhodes telling him MIT and army stories. He missed Happy and his grumpy attitude. He missed... the normalcy of it all.

He missed home. 

But Mr. Stark was mad at him. Mr. Stark even acknowledged that Pepper would be mad at him too. For doing something "stupid". So, he was outcast. Can't go up. Only be stuck at the bottom. Be holed up in his room until Mr. Reynolds or Nellie came to get him, drag him off to another round of drills or for a medical check-up.

He stayed in his bed, curled up with a hand underneath his pillow. With no internship and no connection, the best he could do to pass the time until another round of drills was to take a nap. Make himself drift into slumber and out of his turmoil, and into peace. 

A knock woke him up from his drifting slumber. He picked his head up the pillow, groggily looking at the closed door.

Another knock.

Not part of his dream. He sat up, rubbing away the last reminiscences of sleep. Was it Mr. Stark? “Who is it?” Peter called.

“It’s Rhodey, Peter,” came the familiar voice of Col. Rhodes. “Could you open the door?”

Peter stiffened. Did Mr. Stark tell him? “Um… if I don’t want to?”

He heard a soft chuckle from behind the door. “It’s  _Rhodey_ , Peter,” Col. Rhodes said. “Not  _Tony_. You don’t have to open the door.”

It heartened Peter to know he could count on Col. Rhodes to not barge into his room. Most adults had no qualms opening his room and hauling him out. At least Col. Rhodes respected his privacy.

He also knew that he shouldn’t turn Col. Rhodes away. The man did nothing. He didn’t deserve the silent treatment.

Peter walked up to the door and unlocked it. Col. Rhodes stood in the hallway and smiled when he saw Peter. “Hey—do you have time to talk?”

There was no one else in the hallway with Col. Rhodes. Just him. Peter scrunched his face in thought, wondering if Mr. Stark sent Col. Rhodes as a messenger.

Despite the knotting feelings in his gut, Peter nodded and let Col. Rhodes into his room. The colonel examined the room, noting all the new items that now graced his bedroom. Peter used the distraction to take his seat on the desk chair, acting like he was finishing up homework rather than wallowing on the bed.

“What can I do for you, Col. Rhodes?” Peter asked.

“Rhodey,” Col. Rhodes rectified. “You’re not in the military. No need for formal titles.”

“Rhodey,” Peter tested, but he found it weird. The same amount of weird it felt calling Miss Potts, Pepper. He wasn’t used to addressing adults by their first name. “O-kay… what can I do for you?”

Col. Rhodes gestured to the bed. “May I sit?”

Peter nodded and Col. Rhodes took a seat at the edge of his twin bed. Once seated, Col. Rhodes went straight to the point. “So… missed you at dinner the other night.”

Oh. That.

"I was... busy," Peter picked up a pencil from his desk, nonchalantly tapping it against his opened schoolbook. 

Col. Rhodes flickered down to the desk with Peter's schoolwork splayed out. "Like you are now?"

Peter stopped the tapping. Col. Rhodes was far smarter or more observant than Mr. Stark credited him. But, Peter kept up the charade, refusing to back-down. "Um, yeah. Got a lot of... papers… I mean reading. To do."

Col. Rhodes slowly nodded, but again, not fooled. He tilted his head, eyes fixed on Peter with a knowing look.

Peter extinguished, shoulders dropping. "Mr. Stark told you what happened."

“Tony didn't tell me anything. He's been locked up in his workshop for a few days now. Hasn't come out,” Col. Rhodes claimed. “Then you not showing up to dinner... I can put two-and-two together. ”

Peter sucked in his stomach, eyeing the colonel. The man was far smarter than Mr. Stark credited him.

"Figured something went down if Tony locked himself up in the workshop and you—skittering around corners and missing dinner,” Col. Rhodes observed, gesturing to him and then the room. “Avoiding people in general.”

“I’m not avoiding—” Peter meekly started, but Col. Rhodes stopped him instantly.

“Don’t do that,” Col. Rhodes ordered and Peter closed his lips. “I know avoidance. Tony does it all the time.” He took a big breath, rubbing palms together before letting them fall open. “I get it. Tony has a, well… a temper. Hot-headed sometimes. Stark trait. His father had it and so does Tones. It can be alarming and scary. Faced a few in my time.

“So, I came by to see if you were doing okay," Col. Rhodes finished in one exhaust, a sympathetic gaze on the boy. "You okay?”

An easy question to ask and a hard question to answer. The answer had too many layers. Too complex for a single word, and yet, it would be answered in one. It always was when anyone asked Peter how he was. The truth was, Peter had to be. It was easier if he was. For everyone.

“Fine," Peter swirled chair away from Col. Rhodes. He looked down at his schoolbook, reading line after line about the Seven Years War between England and France. "I'm fine. Just catching up on schoolwork. All the internship work got me falling behind a bit. So... I'm fine. Really. Wasn't hurt or anything.”

“Uh-huh," murmured Col. Rhodes, still inquisitive as ever. Then again, maybe Peter wasn't a good liar. His aunt always seemed to know the truth just by looking at him. "You know... I meant it when I said you could talk to me whenever Tony becomes an asshole. It's what I’m here for most of the time, anyway.”

Peter snorted lightly at the image of Col. Rhodes' main job being to help traumatized individuals after Tony had a chat with them. Not that he was traumatized. Peter wasn't. If anything, he was angry at the belittling and lack of support. What was wrong with trying to be better?

The chair Peter sat on rotated until he directly faced Col. Rhodes. The man’s hand on the back of the chair’s seat as he pulled Peter closer. No more avoidance.

"Wanna tell me what happened?" Col. Rhodes offered. “I’m a good listener.”

Peter considered it. He hadn’t talked to anyone about what occurred. If he told Col. Rhodes the whole story, the man would side with him and confront Mr. Stark on his behalf. Peter desperately needed support and Col. Rhodes was offering to be it.

He relayed to Col. Rhodes the full story of what occurred a few days ago up in the workshop. He explained his reasoning for constructing a suit, for replicating Mr. Stark's repulsor rays and dismissed the accident as a minor incident. Nothing he couldn't handle. He went on describing Mr. Stark's overreaction and suspension, calling it unreasonable and unfair. 

“So, yeah," Peter rambled to a finish, "He kicked me out. I'm not allowed back. He basically banished me.”

Col. Rhodes was quiet through the entire narrative, only make a few winces like when Peter mentioned his crash-landing or Mr. Stark shouting at him. Otherwise, his expression remained neutral as he listened and analyzed the story. 

"I'm sure it’s not permanent," Col. Rhodes said to comfort. “You’ll be back working on nanites or something in no time.”

Peter didn't believe so. “He hates me.”

“Tony? No—no, he doesn't hate you.”

Peter disagreed. "He hates me because I messed up. Because I broke his workshop," he sulked, mouth in a tight pout. "He won't even  _consider_ letting me have a suit—"

“That doesn't mean he hates you," Col. Rhodes deterred, dismissing the notion as ridiculous. "It only means he thinks you're not ready yet. And he’s right. You could have killed yourself pulling a stunt like that. And with DUM-E as back-up? Come on.”

“I was fine! I have super healing, remember?”

“Can’t heal you if your dead,” Col. Rhodes reminded him, looking a bit stressed now as he rubbed his hands over his face. “You’re not ready to be donning a suit, kid.”

"I am ready!" Peter was maddened! He was stronger than ever. Faster than before. And bigger too. He grew some muscles, not exactly as buff as Captain America or Thor, but enough to know he wasn't puny. 

"No you're not," Col. Rhodes shook his head. "Not even close."

“Why not?” Peter hotly demanded. “I defeated all those stupid drones and sentinels! I broke every course record here and—”

“No one is doubting you strength, Peter," Col. Rhodes said. "You are strong. You have the talent, but that doesn't make you an Avenger.”

Peter's eyebrows furrowed in disagreement. He huffed, shaking his head and muttering how ridiculous it all was. Avengers were special people. They had powers no one else had. They are stronger. Faster. Better. How was he not an Avenger?

Col. Rhodes blew out a heavy sigh at the sight of Peter’s disregard. "Did you know that Tony wasn't supposed to be an Avenger?"

“What?”

“Yeah," Col. Rhodes nodded, much to Peter's disbelief. "He didn't pass any of the requirements.”

Peter stared, gob-smacked. How could Iron Man not be an Avenger? He was basically their leader. Or, used to be. Still is? "W-What... no—"

“It's true. Ask Tony about it," Col. Rhodes countered Peter’s refusals. "He was rejected for the initiative due to compulsive behavior, self-destructive tendencies and narcissism. Can't play well with others. I mean, I can keep going...”

“But... he's Iron Man!”

“So?”

"What do you mean ' _so_ '?" Peter said, shocked by Col. Rhodes offhand attitude about it. "Without him there would be no Avengers. Or... or New York! He stopped the bomb! He saved everyone—"

“True. He did save countless lives that day," Col. Rhodes agreed as he bobbed his head along, "but he wasn't recruited as an Avenger. He was a consultant. Hired to help them understand the tesseract and its properties. Everything in-between is confidential, but Tones told me he realized something that day.”

Peter waited for Col. Rhodes to continue. 

The colonel rested his elbows upon his knees and leaned forward, garnering Peter's attention. "Not everything is about one’s capabilities," he said. "It's about responsibility. Power or rank doesn’t mean anything if you can’t take responsibility of the actions.”

A voice called in the back of Peter’s mind. A low hum of remembrance…

“Tony learned the hard way,” Col. Rhodes continued. “A hero isn’t about strength. It’s about choices. Tony's made careless mistakes. Reckless ones too. But in the end, he learned that being a hero was about making the tough decisions. Not the power from his armor.”

Peter stayed silent, thinking back to all the interview and publicity stunts Mr. Stark made over the years. The billionaire playboy turned hero. The idea seemed so far-fetched that the media never stopped reporting it. Still don’t. Tony Stark was not someone anyone would label hero.

And many newscasters didn’t. They only say a narcissistic person, who built an armor suit to use it as a means for his purposes only. Not for the country. Not for the world.

That was until New York happened. When Iron Man caught the nuclear bomb and shoved it into outer space, saving everyone.

He went from Iron Man to Avenger that day. He became a hero on the same day he learned that his choices mattered to the world.

Col. Rhodes took in Peter’s silence as stunned realization. “I know it’s hard to be sidelined when you have all this power at your fingertips, but Tony isn’t doing it because he thinks you’re not capable,” he said. “It’s because he doesn’t want you to be making those choices yet.

"You’re a kid.  _His kid_ ," the colonel emphasized, holding Peter's shoulder in one hand to get Peter’s attention. "Tony's a mechanic. He can fix whatever you broke in his workshop. What he can't fix is you." Col. Rhodes poked a finger on Peter's chest. "He can't build another you. And isn't that a mechanic's worst fear?"

To be unable to fix the damaged already done, Peter thought. He knew that feeling well enough. A faint memory pecked at him. The knots in his stomach twisted. Tighter and tighter. Flashes of something he desperately wanted to be pushed away reappeared. 

Wasn't it odd how grief resembled fear?

Peter roped his arms around his body. "Yeah," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "I can understand that."

Col. Rhodes gave a firm nod. "Good, because you have a lot of life ahead of you, kid. Plenty of years to be a superhero and save the world," he remarked as he squeezed Peter's shoulder affectionately. "And don't worry about Tony. He'll come around. Right now as we speak, Pepper is berating him."

Peter's brows rose up. "Really?"

"Really," Col. Rhodes acknowledged with a smirk. "I wasn't the only one who missed you these past couple of days, kid. Trust me, Pepper probably already has Tony crying in the corner.”

A chuckle erupted from Peter, surprising both himself and Col. Rhodes. He couldn’t help it though. He found it funny to picture Pepper Potts scolding Mr. Stark.

“And he smiles!” Col. Rhodes announced, patting Peter’s arm. “There you go. See? We got your back.”

That sentiment warmed Peter's belly. The knots loosened a bit and he slowly relaxed, arms sliding off to his sides. "I missed you guys too, you know," he said. "Gets kind of boring around here."

"Well, if you want, I have time to spare. You wanna head up to the gym?" Col. Rhodes offered. "I'll show you some tricks that I doubt Reynolds taught you."

Sounded better than staying locked in his room. Peter nodded, jumping up from the chair to tie on his shoes. Col. Rhodes waited and when they were about to leave, the colonel stopped him. 

"What about your homework?"

Peter shrugged. "Oh—I can do that in my sleep," he brushed it aside. "It's nothing."

Col. Rhodes rolled his eyes up, but Peter caught the little smile splitting his face in a humored exasperation. "Good god you remind me of him."

Peter didn't ask to clarify. Already, he walking five steps ahead of the man, eager to get out of the residential wing. “Race you to the top!”

Before Col. Rhodes could swiftly refuse, Peter already sprinted to the elevators.

* * *

Still no show with Mr. Stark.

The famed mechanic still kept himself locked in his workshop, refusing to come out for anything or anyone. Peter wondered what he could possibly be doing in there and wished he had the option to sneak a peek, but he knew it was best he kept his distance. Col. Rhodes and Pepper both said to Peter that no one was angry with him, or hated him. Including Mr. Stark.

“Tony has something on his mind,” Pepper said one day during their internship meet-up. “And he can’t stop until he gets it from his mind into something physical. But, I talked to him. He knows.”

Knows what? Peter’s isolation? Peter’s hurt feelings? Pepper and Col. Rhodes being against him? Peter couldn’t say. He may not be able to get back in the workshop, but Pepper has taken him under her wing. She let him review board minutes and explained the stock market’s relationship with the company.

Happy came back into his life as well. After all, he still had his duties to instruct Peter in boxing and driving to fulfill. Peter had fun, but got overexcited at being back in the ring that he forgot to ease up his strength. He broke the punching bag.

Unfortunately, Happy had no interest in continuing the driving lessons. He respected his neck far too much to get it broken by a kid learning to drive. Peter’s cheeks burned and rolled in his lower lip, embarrassed by his poor driving skills. Peter tried to argue that he needed the practice to get better, but Happy refused in a heartbeat and told him to practice on “other things”.

No amount of begging or bargaining got Peter behind the steering wheel. Happy refused and with Pepper back to the city for a work conference, that left Peter stepping back in with his old team. With great reluctance, Peter dragged his feet to the afternoon practice he wished to avoid. Mr. Reynolds and his teammates were already there, having one-on-one fighting matches with each other. Peter was about a half-hour late, but he didn’t care. No one else did either. They were used to him showing up whenever.

“Glad you could join us, Parker,” Mr. Reynolds said to him. “Get yourself warm-up. You’re up next.”

Peter did his stretches, getting his muscles loosen as he watched Scarlet Fever and Lady Deathstrike go after one another. When they finished, Peter walked to the edge of the mat, ready to step up to the plate.

Mr. Reynolds called out Jack’s name.

But Jack returned, “I just came off,” he complained, face red and shiny with new sweat. “I already did two rounds back-to-back!”

Mr. Reynolds grunted and looked down his sheet. A frown set in, deep and drawn to the edge of his chin.

Peter’s gut twisted in dread anticipation. He did not like the feeling crawling in his skin.

A long, regrettable sigh fell from Mr. Reynolds’ lips. “Powers,” he grunted. “You’re up.”

Powers! Not him. Peter groaned inwardly as Powers hopped up to the mat, a wicked grin splitting his face. Peter looked back at Mr. Reynolds for any relief, but the man simply gave him an apologetic shrug and a gentle push to the mat.

“You’ll be okay,” Mr. Reynolds consoled Peter with an oath of protection. “I’m watching.”

That didn’t stop Powers from torturing him all those other times. Mr. Reynolds was always there, but it never stopped Powers from trying to injure or kill him. Peter’s visits to the medical wards were mostly due to Powers’ version of ‘friendship bonding’.

Peter grudgingly stepped up onto the mat opposite of Powers.

He wished Happy took him driving.

They faced each other at the center. Powers kept that wicked smile, his delirious eyes right on Peter that his stomach flipped uncomfortably. Why was he looking at him like that?

As they positioned themselves, Powers whispered. "You brought your toys?"

Peter's fingers curled toward his wrist. His fingertips brushed against the cool web-shooters, hovering right over the button. His spider-sense tingled, the hairs sticking up along his arm to the back of his neck. His finger kept itching to touch the button. Shoot him now. Shoot him.

Peter restrained the urge, waiting for Mr. Reynolds to give the go-ahead. Mr. Reynolds waved and issued them to start. 

Powers’ eyes glittered. "Because I brought mine!"

Something spherical dropped from Powers’ sleeves and into his opened palm. Peter's spider-sense urged him to jump, but Powers already clicked on the ball. A puff of gas sprayed right into Peter's face. 

Oh god! His face was on fire! Nostrils burned. Eyes stinging and vision a swirl of madness. Peter slammed his eyes shut, but all his five senses screamed in agony. He was too afraid to open his eyes again. Afraid of what the unknown substance Powers used on him. All he knew was that he burned and he needed to clear it.

All those hours spent in the chemistry lab at Midtown, Peter knew the drill. 

Vision gone, Peter relied on his memory and the remaining, but whacked out senses to get him to the showers as fast as possible. He bolted, leaving all the screams and shouts ringing in his ears behind him. All of it blurred together. His legs felt hard and then jiggly and then stiff and back to wobbly. It was like the floor moved, shifting all over to keep him unbalanced.

God—what did Powers spray at him?

Peter smacked into something hard. He bounced off, flipping or tumbling or spiraling. Something was wrong. Vertigo overtook him and he did his best to find something to grab, to stop the spinning. 

Voices continued. So many voices screaming inside his head and out. Voices of no one he knew. His eardrum went static, ringing over and over, but the voices remained. And a cackling. A loud, shrill cackle that went on and on and on and on…

Every muscle in his body was spazzing, or maybe simply stiff. Or flailing. He didn't know. He couldn't see what was happening to him. His spidey-senses drilled into his head, beating his brain to a flat saucer. God… it hurt. It hurt him so much. This was worse than a migraine. It was worse than when his senses were heightened the first time. This… this made him nauseous to the point he wanted to throw up everything: heart, lungs, liver, stomach, kidney and… everything.

Peter forced himself to stay composed, sealing his mouth to keep the vomit from exploding. With all his strength, he moved. Crawling to be more exact as he palmed his hands against something solid, his legs dragged behind him. One hand out at a time. One hand and then the next. Keep moving. Keep going.

He was near the showers by now. He hoped. 

A chilly squall enveloped him. He must have made it to the locker room. Or the showers. He shivered, scaling up in hopes of finding something to help him. 

A knob. His fingers slipped on a knob. He haplessly and furiously twisted until something hit him. Like little bullets raining down on him. Water. It must be water. 

He threw his face right into the stream, letting the pellets hit his cheeks, chin and eyelids repeatedly. It cooled away the burns, dousing the fire. Steady breaths. Controlled breaths. He made it.

Thinking it was safe, Peter opened his eyes.

Blood. Lots and lots of blood. All of it pouring on him.

Peter shrieked and backed up, only for vertigo to hit him. His feet slipped. Balanced lost and the world rocked him off. He tipped. He thrashed his arms madly, desperately! His hands slid down a smooth surface, unable to hold a grip. His face was shoved up against a thickness that clogged his mouth. He couldn't breathe. Throat closing. Lungs expanding.

Voices grew louder and louder. Ringing too loud in his ears that it made his own mind scream in retaliation. Drown it all out. Keep everything out. 

Peter wanted to release the scream. Could he scream? Again, something clogged up his throat and his body felt sticky, but every movement made him feel like he was falling, slipping out of control. 

Breathe! Damnit! _Breathe_!

So many voices. All making nonsense. He wanted his aunt. He wanted Aunt May. Where was Aunt May? Where was she? Why did she disappear?

He buried himself, closing in on himself for safety. Let the blood wash off him. Let him lay still and be forgotten. Let the nightmares pass him. Let it all go away!

A voice among the brutal masses yelled to him.  _Peter._

His name. That was his name.

_Peter_!

He shook. Stay tight. Stay close. Let it all pass.

The other voices submitted, smothered by the Voice.  _Peter_.

Peter recognized that voice. It belonged to someone. Someone he knew well. 

_Hey! Open your eyes for me._

His eyes were open. Weren't they? He saw blood. He saw so much blood. Was he dying? 

_You’re not dying. I got you. You’re okay, but I need you to open your eyes._

He shivered and shook and... his eyes were open! He saw his bloody hands. He saw the bloody sidewalk. He saw the bloody--

_C'mon, please open your eyes._

As hard as he could, Peter tried. He peeled his heavy eyelids back. The effort alone was tiring. His eyelashes weighed a hundred pounds each, but Peter got them to open. He saw a bright light—a cruel blast that blinded him. But, centered in the middle, staring at him with all the concern of the world, was a face Peter never forgot. 

“Uncle Ben?”


	18. Uncle Ben

Warmth. A bundle of soft covers and comfort. That was what Peter awoke to when he blearily came alive. At first, he noticed nothing. Just the minor aches from growth spurt, but with a little bit of stretching, they aches faded away. He blinked a few times, his vision coming together and things began to take shape. 

Ahead of him was a poster of Albert Einstein. The same one he had in his old bedroom. Below it was a hamper, followed by a small bookcase stuffed with textbooks, and science fiction and fantasy books. A picture frame on top, a photograph of his dead parents. 

Wait.

Peter propped himself on his elbows, studying the objects around the room with familiarity. It was his bedroom! The one in Queens. 

He shot up, blanket falling right off him and to the floor. He gaped, spying every corner of the room and recognizing it all belonging to him. His retro tech that cluttered his desk remained untouched and his clothes were hung on the closet rod, neat and in order. 

Peter's eyes widened at it all. How did he get there? Wasn't he... did that mean...

Then he remembered. Before everything wiped away from him, he remembered. He saw his Uncle Ben. He was right in front of him when he spiraled into mania. 

Did that mean...

Peter scrambled to the door. He probably should have taken it easy, but his conscious demanded answers. The door nearly broke off his hinges from Peter's yanking. It groaned in protest as it opened on command, leading Peter to the corridor. The sound of silence enveloped him. His spidey-sense didn't alert him to anything. He looked down the hall to living room, where he knew his aunt and uncle would be. Barefoot against the uneven wooden floors, Peter inched his way to the opening, heart drumming in both uncertainty and hope.

The narrow corridor came to an end, opening up to a small space Peter recognized as his old living room. The blue couch centered the room with two lofty armchairs on either side, a coffee table in between, holding day old newspapers and an empty ceramic bowl. A television set sat on a wooden TV stand, pressed against the beige wall. Next to that was another dark cherry bookcase that had Aunt May's Tiffany lamp that she loved so much. The room was filled with memorabilia, but it lacked life. It was empty. The cushions untouched. The newspapers folded. And there were no mugs of steaming coffee. No one was there.

“You're awake.”

Peter freaked. He whirled on his heels, eyes wide on the person standing in the kitchen. "W-Wh... what?"

There stood Uncle Ben, mug in hand and a folded newspaper on the counter by his elbow. The man smiled, the laugh wrinkles etched deep in the corners of his lips. Kind eyes softening on Peter's quizzical face.

“Earlier than expected," Uncle Ben commented. "Thought I had another hour or so, since you tend to oversleep. Especially on Saturdays.”

The man chuckled to himself, but Peter remained paralyzed, unable to believe. "You're dead."

Uncle Ben's chuckles softened to a quiet, morose sigh. Peter struggled to breathe. "You died," he muttered, his mind feeling like a tornado wreaking havoc all everything he ever knew. "I saw... I was there! Y-You died!"

His uncle only looked at him with sympathy.

“We had a funeral for you," Peter said, a little louder. Emotions freeing him from paralysis. "We buried you!”

“I know.”

"May... she cried for months!"

"I know that too."

Peter scrunched up his brows, completely befuddled. "I don't understand," he muttered, reality hanging by a thread. "What—what's happening? H-How... how are you here?"

Uncle Ben gestured Peter to sit on the couch. Peter was hesitant at first. The man standing a mere foot away from him was dead, and yet, he stood, talked, and moved like a person filled with life. Eventually, he lowered himself in the middle of the couch, and his Uncle Ben sat next to him. 

Peter craned his head over his Uncle Ben's shoulder, back toward the kitchen. Was Aunt May in there too? Attempting to make homemade, whole wheat pancakes from scratch again?

“She's not here.”

Peter looked back to his uncle. "She's not?"

Uncle Ben shook her head. "She won't be here for a very long time."

What did that mean?

“Don't worry," Uncle Ben said with a soft kindness to calm him his rising anxiety. "She's all right.”

“I don't..." Peter stopped and searched his surroundings again. Everything seemed to be in a lighter color. Same blue walls, but lighter. Same cabinet, but lighter. Same uneven floor, but leveled. "... understand.”

Uncle Ben adjusted his seat, leaning his head down to capture Peter's attention. "You're right, Peter. I am dead by one means, but very much alive in other ways."

Peter's face crumbled. "Huh?"

Ben let out a light chuckle. "Such a bright mind, but too young to fully understand all that life is," he said, but not in a patronizing way. In Uncle Ben's way. A way that never made Peter feel small or stupid or insignificant. "I’m here because you are here.”

O-kay… that didn’t explain very much at all. “Where are we exactly?” questioned Peter.

“Oh... I would say the apartment," Uncle Ben studied the area around them. “… circa 2012, I believe.”

Peter double-checked. His uncle was right. May hadn't replaced the chair coverings yet. It really was 2012. "No—I meant... is this the afterlife? Am I dead?"

“You’re not dead,” Uncle Ben promised. "Which means this is not the afterlife.”

“Then where—”

“We're in your mind," Uncle Ben clarified, gesturing wildly around the living room. "All of this is in your mind.”

Peter's brows bunched together, puzzled. "So... none of this real? You're not real?"

“Well, of course I'm real!" Uncle Ben expressed merrily, not at all offended. "The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living." He endearingly took Peter’s shoulder, holding him. "I'm alive through you, kiddo.”

Peter looked at the hand then back to Ben's face. It looked like his uncle. The kind face. The brown hair similar to his own, not as unruly. Always combed. His hazel eyes, filled with wisdom and love, looked on in patience.

Peter’s bottom lip quivered as he took in everything. "It's really you?"

Uncle Ben smiled. "Hi, Petey."

Tears burst out of his eyes. He launched into Uncle Ben, slamming himself against the man. Arms flung over the man’s neck, Peter pressed close to the uncle's chest. He breathed in his uncle, smelling the same, cheap aftershave Ben wore after he shaved his face. It smelled like him. Just like him. 

A comforting pat padded on his back. “Miss you too, kiddo,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “It’s been a long time.”

Uncle Ben had no idea. Days without him felt like years for Peter. He missed him too much. Too often. And a whole lot more each morning he woke up to. There were no more days. No more moments. Everything about his uncle was no more than a memory. Every happy memory of his uncle made him smile and weep. It startled him how much his love for his uncle brought so much despair.

They held onto each other for another minute before his uncle signaled it was time to let go. Peter reluctantly pulled away. His eyes shined with brightness. Two years. Too long to be gone forever. He had so much he wanted to say. So much to apologize for.

“Uncle Ben… I’m so sor—”

“Tell me what’s been happening,” Uncle Ben ignored his words. “What’s been going on with your life?”

Peter divulged his life story since he last saw his uncle. He spoke of Aunt May and her bravery during the loss. That made the light in Uncle Ben’s eyes dim a bit. Saddened but the hurt his true love endured. Peter quickly changed the topic, telling Uncle Ben of school, Ned and of course, his new alias—Spider-man.

It was hard to tell his uncle about Spider-man. Especially since it was Spider-man that cut Uncle Ben’s life short.

But Uncle Ben was far more interested in that aspect of Peter’s life. Especially when Peter got around to the Compound and Mr. Stark. “Is he treating you well?” Uncle Ben questioned.

Peter remembered his uncle’s disdain for the famed billionaire/superhero. “Um… actually, yeah. Yeah, he’s been good to me. Helping me out and everything,” he said. “Well, not recently. That’s my fault though. I messed up. I tried to be something I wasn’t ready for. I guess… I don’t know. I thought I was, but…”

He looked back up to his uncle. The man’s was full of life. Not death. Remember it like this. “I guess I’m not.”

Uncle Ben smiled gently and put an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “There will be a time, as always, when one is ready,” he said. “And there will be a time when one is not ready, but must be. Whenever time comes, you must be brave.”

Peter’s eyes stung again, thinking back to that time. The time the world changed for them. “Were you?”

“Yes.”

Peter sucked in a deep breath, chest hurt like his bones cracked. Something heavy pushed against him. “I wasn’t,” he confessed, closing his eyes to shut away the painful memories. “I was a coward.”

“You’re not a coward, Peter.”

“Yeah, I am. I-I… didn’t do anything.”

“Didn’t do anything?” Uncle Ben exclaimed in complete disbelief, “Petey, you go up against bullies, rapists and thieves every day! You stand up for the little guys. Even when it puts you in danger. You save lives every day, kiddo.”

“But I didn’t sav—”

“Nor could you,” Uncle Ben stated and Peter trembled, eyes strained and blotchy. “What happened to me wasn’t your fault.”

“I could have stop—”

Uncle Ben shook his head. “No, you couldn’t,” he said gently, but firm. “I made a choice. As did the other guy. The outcome wasn’t on you.”

Didn’t feel like it, Peter solemnly thought. If he stopped the robber the first time, then the robber would never had the chance to hurt his uncle. He wouldn’t have to listen to Aunt May sob in the bathroom late in the evenings when she thought he was asleep. She slept on the couch those first two months after they buried him. Too lonely and too hurt to sleep alone in the bed she shared with her husband.

All because Peter let that robber go. He didn’t do the right thing at the right time.

A heavy sigh fell from his uncle. “It’s okay, Peter,” he said. “Come here.”

They hugged again. Uncle Ben holding Peter tighter than before, hand on the back of his head, gently ruffling the back of Peter’s head like he used to when Peter had nightmares as a kid. Peter leaned into the hug, breathing deep and feeling more relaxed than he had in ages. Uncle Ben always felt so warm.

“I could not be more proud of you,” Uncle Ben murmured to him. “You will go on to do amazing things. I know you will.”

Peter needed to hear that. Needed the fatherly approval that he desperately craved. He wanted to do right for his uncle. Ever since that wretched night, Peter only ever wanted Uncle Ben to be proud of him. 

Something shifted. Peter didn’t know what, but he sensed it. His Uncle Ben broke away and looked at the watch that Peter now owned back in reality.

“Time has come,” Uncle Ben said, getting up from the couch. “Got to get going.”

Peter jumped to his feet at once. "I don't want you to go."

It sounded childish. Petulant. Selfish too, but Peter missed Uncle Ben. He didn't want his uncle to leave him again.

Uncle Ben cupped the side of Peter's face. "I'm not going anywhere," he said, his thumb gently wiping away a runaway tear. "You are though. Time for you to go home.”

“I don’t want to go. I want to stay. With you.”

“You’re wanted back home. With people who love you and miss you,” Uncle Ben said. “The living awaits you, Petey.”

“Can’t it wait a little longer?” Peter wanted more time with his uncle. After all, the dead don’t get to talk as much as the living.

“It cannot,” Uncle Ben apologetically answered. “It needs you. There are people out there who need you. You're going to change the world. And you can’t do that being stuck here."

Peter shook his head. "I-I don't want to change the world," he claimed, frustrated. "I just want you. And Aunt May. I want home."

He wanted to go back to the way things were. Living in Queens. With his aunt and uncle. Going to school. Hanging-out with Ned. Doing things only teenagers would ever do. 

Things he could never do anymore.

Uncle Ben's face looked down upon him, full of compassion. "You'll always have us, Peter," he reminded him. "In times of trouble, I'll always come back for you."

Peter blinked back a tear. It wasn't fair. Any of it. 

His uncle headed to the front door and opened it. Peter couldn't see what was on the other side. It was pitch black. Nothingness. 

Then, his uncle pulled Peter into another hug, hand cradling the back of Peter's head. "Be brave, Peter," Peter heard his uncle say. "Fear does not stop death. Only life. Remember that, Petey. Remember."

It was an odd thing to say, but nonetheless true. Peter squeezed his uncle tighter, almost hoping he could latch onto him. Never let go. 

“I'll never leave you," Uncle Ben murmured in his ear, his fingers carding the back of Peter's hair. "I love you so much.”

Then he broke away, stepping aside to place Peter right in front of the nothingness. It drew to Peter, and he felt something pulling on his bellybutton, luring him into the pitch darkness.

Peter weighted his foot down, but it was pointless. He kept moving to it.

He gave one last look to his uncle. His uncle gave him a small smile. "Remember, Peter,” he uncle called out. “With great power, comes great responsibility.”

And with that last reminder, the darkness took him. The door shut and Peter saw his uncle waving him goodbye, like he used to do when Peter ran to catch the subway.

All of it dissipated, shooting him upward like a rocket launcher. Up to a clearing. Up and away from all the darkness. Up and up and up until…

* * *

White.

White ceilings. White walls. White fan, spinning around and around, forever and onward.

Peter didn’t recall opening his eyes. One moment it was black. Next, white.

His uncle was gone. So was the apartment. All replaced with white walls, white ceiling and the smell of disinfection that stung his nostrils. He opened his mouth to breathe, to avoid the chemical gag, but he found that it hurt. His throat strained and dry. Almost like it was a desert inside him.

He moved his hand toward his face, but found his limbs heavy and the bones ached. He lifted his head, looking down. A nice blanket covered over him, but that wasn't what caught his eye. Down at the other end, on the counter, was an array of flowers, gift baskets and even an overly large teddy bear. Balloons were tied to knobs, wishing him well and to get better. They were all clustered together, the presents all shoving to get a seat at the table. 

Peter was flabbergasted. Were all those for him?

Neck too weak to stay in position, Peter let his head fall back against the pillow. Why was he so weak? Did Powers take away his gifts? Was there something in the gas that made him... human?

Peter turned his head to the side. His heart received another shock. Scrunched and slumped in an armchair was Tony Stark. Head in his palm, eyes closed, but mouth sealed, like he was in the midst of drifting toward slumber. The man forgo the suit again. Dressed in jeans, a band shirt and a zipped jacket, Mr. Stark didn't look his best. Severe bags hung underneath his eyes. Hair tousled to the point it was unstylish rather than cool. And even his famous facial hair started to grow fuller. 

Peter called to him. "Mr. Stark?"

His voice croaked, the dryness scratching his words to bits. Too soft to be heard over the light, wisp of tired breaths. He needed to be louder.

"Mr. Stark?" Peter croaked a little louder. The loudest he could do in his exhaustion.

It was enough. Mr. Stark's eyes fluttered awake. Confusion muddled in his irises until they found Peter's own eyes looking back at him. The man shot up, launching himself nearly forward to Peter's bed.

“You're up!" he announced, sounding shocked and relieved. "How long have you been up? Did the doctors come around?”

"I—" Peter's words got cut off by a violent hack. His lungs burned for a quick second before it freed him to breathe easier.

Mr. Stark sprung from his seat. "You're fine. You're fine," he repeatedly told Peter. "Do you want me to get you some water? Do you want water?"

Peter nodded. Water sounded good.

Mr. Stark rushed to the counter, pushing the balloons out of his way as he filled a plastic cup with water from the sink. He returned, setting it aside. "Let me help you up..."

Peter let Mr. Stark get him to sit in an upright position. He kept asking Peter if he was good or if anything hurt. Only minor aches, but they subsided once situated. Mr. Stark handed him the water. "Don't guzzle it down. You'll choke."

The water felt so good! The cool liquid doused the flames and saved his throat from the dry spell. He drank it all and Mr. Stark filled up again, holding it up as Peter chugged. After drinking three cups of water, Peter's throat felt normal again. 

“Thank you," he said, voice still a bit rough. "What's in the water here? Tastes so good.”

The corner of Mr. Stark's lips upturned a bit. "Thought the same thing when I came back from Afghanistan." He returned to his seat, bringing the chair close to the bed. “Seriously, kid. How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Nausea? Any soreness?”

It was hard to follow the man’s words. Peter’s mind remained a bit sluggish. “I’m… so tired,” he muttered, nestling his head against the fluffiest pillow he ever rested on. “What happened? I… I don’t remember.”

Mr. Stark rolled in his lips, hands fumbling against each other. He was thinking. Thinking hard. Finally, Mr. Stark took a breath. “Powers drugged you,” he clasped his hands in front of him. “He gassed you up with some kind of concoction he created. A hallucinogenic. Supposed to make you see crazy sh—stuff. Affect your senses. Hype them up. Basically a fear drug.”

“Like in the Batman comics,” Peter murmured, thinking of Scarecrow and his fear toxins.

“Sure,” Mr. Struck brushed aside, seemingly not appreciating the pop-culture reference at the moment. “But, in your case, with your already dialed-up senses, it ultimately overwhelmed them. It was too much.”

Peter pinched his brows forward. “You mean… like an overdose?”

“Yeah... like an overdose,” Mr. Stark said with a heavy, drawn sigh. “Powers poisoned you. The minute he hit you with it, you were… gone.” He raked his hands through his hair, looking even more exhausted than ever. “The showers helped. That was quick thinking by the way. Probably saved your life. Or at least, gave us a chance to save your life.”

“I remembered it from chemistry.”

That got him an attempted smile from Mr. Stark. “School is good. Teaches you all good things,” he nervously quipped, trying to bring some humor to balance the stressful tension brewing in the room. “Still scared us half to death. You were out for over a week, kid. Dr. Cho kept having to redraw your blood and stabilize you. God—it was a mess. None of us wanted to leave your side. Did rotations so that one of us was always here with you. Mostly me, but… yeah, you got us all scared out of our minds.”

“Us?”

“Me, Pep, Rhodey, Vision… Happy came by too. Bought you that huge bear,” Mr. Stark pointed to the horde of gifts. “I never saw him so pale. Well, except that time he was in the hospital. He took your attack pretty hard. Blamed himself because he thought if he only took you driving, then it wouldn’t have happened.”

“It would have happened anyway,” Peter thought how Powers must have been planning his own surprise attack since he got strapped to a wall by the webs. He stayed patient and waited until he faced Peter again. “If not then, another time.”

“That’s what I told him.”

Peter gave him a small nod of approval before he looked around the room again. “Was there anyone else?”

“Like who?”

Peter knew it was stupid to hope that maybe it wasn’t just all in his head. “Oh, um, no one. I was just—”

“Ben wasn’t here.”

Peter shut his mouth, eyes enlarged at Mr. Stark. “H-How did you—”

“You said his name a lot,” Mr. Stark answered. “You even mistaken me as him a few times. You called out for him during your stupor. Kept apologizing too. Said something about being at fault or another.”

Peter sunk into his bed, completely mortified. He had whined like a baby, calling out for dead people in front of Mr. Stark and others. They would never look at him like an adult anymore. No one would ever take him seriously or look at him like anything more than a broken child, crying out for the dead.

And if Mr. Stark kept staring at him like he was some injured bird, fluttering and flapping on the ground, he was going to throw the blanket over his head.

Mr. Stark swallowed, fingers tapping against his knees as he hummed for a second. “So—you want to talk about it?”

Peter immediately shook his head. No. He did not want to talk about it with Mr. Stark. Iron Man had more important things to do than listened to a sad tale.

Mr. Stark heaved a deep, remorseful sigh. “I know I haven’t been very open with you. It’s just how I was raised,” he illuminated for Peter. “Emotions were never a strong suit in my family. Never show your feelings. That sort of old-fashion parenting. But, kid—I’m not leaving here, okay? Not after spending days watching you scream and cry and convulse in agony.”

He scooted his chair closer, keeping his attention right on Peter. “I don’t know what you saw, but I know it was something traumatizing. And I know it had to do with whatever happened to your uncle,” he said. “So—whenever you’re ready to talk, I’ll be right here.”

The man dramatically planted himself right on the chair, gripping the armrests and acting like he was getting comfortable for the long haul.

Funny enough, it convinced Peter to truly believe Mr. Stark’s promised vigil. The man may never leave him until he talked about all the horror that Peter bundled inside himself. Peter tried burying it. Tried to move on. Tried to remind himself it wasn’t his fault. But, all the scars he carried in his heart kept being reopened and bled into his soul.

His uncle’s death was like lights going out, leaving Peter stranded in the dark for years. It was so hard, walking around with that cloud over his head. Always wondering if it would ever lift. If he would ever find a way to overcome the tragedy inflicted upon him.

Mr. Stark offered him a path. Offered a light to guide him out. After all, if anyone who understood the loss of a parent, it would be Mr. Stark. It was no secret that the man lost both his parents in one night at a young age. The man knew of loss. It must be like an old friend. It felt like that for Peter anyway. Pain and death were Peter’s oldest friends. They never left him, following him out of his childhood years and into his adolescence. Never failing to remind him that they exist.  

Peter licked his dry, crusted lips. He took a deep breath, glancing briefly upward, hoping his uncle approved. Hoping that Mr. Stark may be able to help him. There was no reason to hide it from him. His delirious state betrayed his secret to Mr. Stark. It might be good to talk to someone who could relate. Someone who wasn’t a shrink, writing away on a notepad and handing him pills to dull the ache in his chest.

"I lived a normal life, Mr. Stark," Peter started, garnering Mr. Stark’s full attention as the man leaned in his seat, elbows on knees. "Not, well, normal for me anyway. My parents died long ago, so my aunt and uncle raised me. They became my parents. When I think of mom or dad, I picture them. 

"They're the best people out there in the world. Everyone who's ever met them says so," Peter carried on, thinking of his aunt and uncle. The smiles. The laughter. How they drew people to them so easily. Always talkative. Always friendly. Not like Peter, who was too awkward and socially inept to even say hi to a pretty girl. "We were a good, normal family. I love them. They're all I have in the world.

"Then, I got the spider bite and things... well, it changed. _I_ changed. And not for the better. Not at first anyway." Peter stopped, wondering if Mr. Stark really wanted him to ramble on about his low-life problems. But Mr. Stark nodded his head along, signaling him to keep talking. To not be afraid. "It started when Flash had gotten a gold pair of Beats and he was showing them off to everyone, talking it up like it was something every normal kid had. 

"Naturally, that meant pointing me out on how I can barely keep my cheap Skullcandy headphones from breaking apart," Peter looked to Mr. Stark to check if the man was following along. "They're just these simple headphones that don't honestly last—

"I get it, Pete."

"Oh... okay. So, um, anyway… Flash mocked me and everyone, well, you know… kids can be mean. Anyway, I just got tired of being called a loser. I just… I didn’t want to be Peter Parker anymore. I didn’t want to be poor. Or awkward. Or gawky. Or… I didn’t want to be a loser. You get it?”

Mr. Stark nodded, but Peter doubted the man fully comprehended everything Peter experienced. The man was born rich. Was a social butterfly. And everyone adored him. But… whatever.

“So I thought if I got a pair—of the Beats headphones, that is—then, Flash wouldn't laugh at me. I would fit in with everyone else at the school. I’ll be cool. Just like the rest of them. I know it’s stupid to think that would work, but… I thought it would. I asked my aunt and uncle if they could buy me a pair, but they said no. It was too expensive for something that wasn’t really a necessity. I tried to argue that it was, but my uncle told me that materials doesn’t make a man. So—I was stuck with my cheap headphones and mockery.

“Then I overheard about this underground fight matches. About boxers and others meeting up at local gymnasiums for tournaments. Cash prize. Five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars, Mr. Stark! It’s a lot of money to a guy like me and I could buy my own Beats with that money. So, I signed up. I didn’t want people to know I was a kid though, so I wore a mask to hide my face and soon, I had my first match. Won it. Easy.

“I won every match. It felt great to be a winner and not a loser. People were cheering me on. Rooting for me. And I won the cash! It was… it was a good feeling, Mr. Stark. Kind of made me a bit cocky. Thought I was invincible,” Peter admitted, ashamed of himself to ever believing no harm could ever come to him. “But, all the late nights and bruises from the matches got my uncle’s attention. He started asking me questions about where I was going. Who I was seeing. What I was doing. He started to not trust me, which hurt. I didn’t want to lose his trust, but if I told him what I was doing—”

“He would have stopped it,” Mr. Stark finished, “like any sane parent would do.”

Peter nodded. “Yeah, so I just kept lying to him. Kept telling him things like I was going to Ned’s house or I just ran into a door. Just lies, you know. I didn’t want him to worry. They worried enough as it is with all the bills and work. I wasn’t in any danger. I healed fast and I could handle myself against those big guys.

“But when I came back home one night, way past my curfew, I found my uncle waiting for me. He was mad. Maybe not mad. He never really got angry. He was more the disappointed parent,” Peter explained. “He confronted me in the living room. Confronted me on the lies. Told me he called Ned’s house and that I was never there. Then he searched my room. Found the cash—

“He asked if I was in a gang. Was I doing drugs or selling them. I said no, but he didn’t believe me. He said that Aunt May was on her way home with a drug test and that I was going to take it. I was hurt and upset that he wasn’t listening to me and I…” Peter shut his eyes for a moment, remembering their fight vividly. Horrible regret crawled up inside, making him feel rotten for all the scathing words being shouted at the man he admired most in the world. “Things escalated. I said some things I didn’t mean and… I got so tired of him not believing me that I just ran. Right out the door.”

The worst mistake I ever made, Peter thought. He replayed that night so many times in the days afterwards, thinking of different scenarios. Doing different actions or saying different words. Concluding with different, but happier endings.

“Didn’t go anywhere particular. Just walked around until I got hungry again,” Peter restarted after that moment of silence. “I stopped at a bodega to get something, but I only had a buck and a few cents on me. I wanted to buy a candy bar. That’s it. Just a stupid candy bar. The cashier said no. No money. No food. Even though I was only five cents short. He didn’t give a damn. He kicked me out.

“And that’s… that’s when it happened,” Peter’s heart tensed up. Each heartbeat painful, pounding ruthlessly against him. “Another man came in. He… he had a gun. He demanded all the money. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but the guy with the gun got all the money and fled. The cashier yelled at me to stop him, but… I-I didn’t.

“I should have. I mean… I had the power to do so. Easily. Could have overpowered him with a simple hit. But… I didn’t. I should have. But I didn’t,” Peter said, feeling his throat constricting. His words tightening as he continued. “Instead, I watched the thief get away and the cashier shouting for someone to do something. And that’s when I saw him. My uncle.

“He was supposed to be home. Waiting for Aunt May to come back from work. He… he was supposed to be home. Being mad and… thinking of ways to ground me and not… not out _looking_ for me. He was searching the neighborhood and… he was w-walking straight to the thief. The thief was running at him and… the cashier still shouting and Uncle Ben… he just… he… he, um, he…”

The memory of that night rose up like bile. A dark curtain drew back, revealing the horrible truth that crushed Peter’s heart. It sent him into a tidal wave, crashing into him, spinning him around and around in storm of confusion, helplessness and sorrow. He pictured his uncle again like he was watching a film—his uncle walking down the street, head swiveling right and left, checking each face that passed, searching for him. His uncle was looking for him. Not the thief barreling right at him.

And not death that claimed him.

“I yelled and I-I ran… ran really fast. Fastest I have ever run down the street, trying to get to my uncle. “He was… h-he um, he... he was Ben Parker. Always doing the right thing. No matter what. That’s who he was.”

He recalled Uncle Ben slowing his walk, legs braced for impact against the running thief. Peter heard his own screams in his head, shouting at his uncle. Begging.

“I don’t… remember much. Just pieces. I-I… Ben fell. I remember that. There was… no gunshot though. No… I didn’t hear the bullet. I have super-hearing, but I don’t remember hearing the gun go off. I j-just saw my uncle fall and… I was still running. Not even close enough to catch him.

“There was blood. All over his shirt. I-I couldn’t even find the wound. There was… so much blood, Mr. Stark. Blood was everywhere. A-And… my uncle was struggling and trying and I was… I-I was… I can’t remember. I can’t…”

Peter’s voice cracked, words sounding brittle. Something wet hit his cheek, trailing down to his chin. He pressed his lips tight, hardening his words as best he could. He couldn’t break. Not in front of Mr. Stark. “I-I… he was saying… h-he wanted to-to…”

The room faded before him, replaced with a grim setting. Faint wheezes of breaths rang loud in Peter’s ears. Blood seeping through thick wool and a hand—a bloody hand reaching up to Peter’s face. “ _Peter… P-Peter? You’re okay._ ”

His vision blurred, watered down. He blinked to clear it up, but it only got worse. His eyes were getting puffy, and cheeks shined and polished by the few tears that dripped off his eyelashes. Peter turned his head, doing his best to focus on the plain white ceiling. Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.

But the water drowned him. The suffocation began and Peter heard the screams getting louder and louder in his ears. Peter wrapped his fingers into fists around his blankets, clutching them as an anchor. But, even an anchor doesn’t hold against a storm.

Peter heard a soft squeak and the side of his bed dipped. Someone was grabbing him, pulling him up. He realized it was Mr. Stark.

“No—no. I’m fine. I’m okay,” Peter blubbered shaking his head. He pulled away, trying to get himself back to the bed, but Mr. Stark held a strong grip.

Mr. Stark hugged Peter close, bringing Peter’s face to his chest. He had one arm looped behind the boy’s back and the other arm over the shoulder, hand cradling the back of Peter’s head. Just like Uncle Ben always did.

“Mr. Stark, I’m okay—”

The man shushed him. “I know,” he said, his words soothing Peter’s fragile heart. “Cry, kid.”

The single command acted like the final key. It broke him and Peter slumped against the man, his tears no longer silent nor pooled. The waterworks sprouted from his eyes and nose alike. His mouth dropped and let out a horrible sound. The sound that echoed across Peter’s tragedy. The sound of loss. Grief. Despair. Helplessness. It all came in an ugly wad of shudders and tears.

Peter let go of the blanket and wrapped his arms around Mr. Stark. He grasped onto him, burying his face into Mr. Stark’s shirt. The cloth got wetter and wetter, and Peter’s breathing hitched into a choked sob.

Mr. Stark didn’t break away from him. Kept hold and steadfast, letting Peter weep against him for as long as he needed to.


	19. Welcome Home, Peter

Peter was discharged from the medical wing a week later. He didn't return to his bedroom. That was gone. He was upgraded to a new room with a private bathroom and a walk-in closet. All of his belongings were moved into the new bedroom, including his books and vintage Star Wars poster. Other things were added into the room like a flat screen television, a compartment equipped with a console and video games, more books, and a spacious desk with a fancy new model computer. His twin bed was upgraded to a queen, giving him plenty to space to sprawl his limbs in any direction he wanted without falling off. 

The most exciting new addition included in his room was his own personal AI. It had a woman's voice, kind and gentle, always patient with whatever Peter needed or asked. He named her KAREN, and he grew to appreciate having his own AI. She was helpful and supportive of everything he decided to do. Kind of like a mother, watching over him. 

His new room was located a floor below Mr. Stark's penthouse and adjacent to Vision, who often walked through the walls rather than knock on the door. Peter would have to reiterate boundaries to the android. 

Happy restarted their driving lessons and that was still much the same. Happy sat in the passenger seat, all sweaty, white-knuckled and hyperventilating, but he toned down his shouting. After all, Peter nearly died and he knew Happy still felt guilty over it, despite the numerous times he told him it wasn't his fault. He couldn’t have known Powers’s plan of attack. Yet, Happy took it to heart and was now less annoyed and more patient toward him.

Peter never saw his teammates again. Mr. Reynolds stopped by once while he was recuperating, coming to check-in on him and to apologize for not doing more to keep him safe. Not that the man did much to help Peter in all the times he spent under his command, but Peter remained polite and told him to not worry. He survived. It was the last time he saw Mr. Reynolds. Col. Rhodes took over Peter's training in a private gym. 

Peter learned of Powers fate. After he gassed Peter, Luke jumped him and wrestled Powers away while Jack kicked the gadget out of Powers' hands. Mr. Reynolds tried to help Peter, but Peter's delirious state kept him running and breaking everything in his path (apparently, what Peter believed to be him slipping was actually him pulling the wood and tiles right off with his excessive strength). Luke kept Powers subdue until Mr. Stark had time to deal with him. And apparently Mr. Stark laid down the hammer. His antagonist and almost-killer was sent straight to the hole.

With Powers gone, Peter thought he would return to his team. That was not the case. Mr. Stark and Col. Rhodes thought it would be safer if Peter trained on his own, away from the adults who may want to retaliate against him. Training one-on-one with Col. Rhodes was nice. He didn't have to constantly double-check if someone was about to trip him or drop him. And the dull headache he always got around his team vanished when he worked with Col. Rhodes. His spidey-sense at ease, relaxed. 

Nighttime was a different scene altogether. For weeks after the attack, Peter suffered from nightmares. Most from the Horrible Night. A few were of Powers, laughing manically at him as he blinded him with green mist that choked him. And the others were of his aunt, disappearing from sight and him searching endlessly, calling her name over and over again. And he'd wake up crying or screaming or fighting to breathe. Each time he woke, he either found Mr. Stark, Col. Rhodes, Happy or Vision, right by his bed, trying to calm him down. Most of the time it was Mr. Stark or Vision. The android overheard his distress and KAREN alerted Mr. Stark. Once calm and realizing it was all a dream, Peter fell back asleep. Sometimes, Mr. Stark would stay until he fell asleep or, if the nightmare was bad enough that sleep became impossible, Mr. Stark brought him to the garage or the workshop to distract his troubled mind. They didn't talk very much while they worked. Only if Peter started the conversation did Mr. Stark join, but otherwise, they worked in peace. 

After one particular horrible nightmare, Peter asked Mr. Stark if he could call his aunt. "I don't know why Mr. Stark," he said, feeling cold and his fingers twitching, "but I feel like she's in trouble. Like something bad is going to happen if I don't talk to her or... or something."

“You know I can't do that," Mr. Stark said. "I already got an earful from Ross about the last time an unknown signal was sent out from the Compound. I can't let you call her. Not until it's all over. Okay?”

It wasn't okay. The nagging feeling sat uncomfortably on Peter's thoughts. "But... if she's in trouble—"

“I already had someone check in on her. She's fine. Safe," Mr. Stark informed him, a little terse. "It's all in your head, Peter. She's fine. Your nightmares are messing with you. Happened to me too after New York. You start thinking bad things are going to keep happening all the time. But, trust me. Nothing bad is going to happen to her. Gotta stop thinking it will. Think happier thoughts, Peter Pan.”

Peter tried. He pictured his aunt alive. He recollected his happier days with his uncle, building rockets and catching frogs at Corona Park. He remembered their smiles, the pride and happiness in their faces right as he closed his eyes for sleep. 

Time ambled on, each night becoming easier and easier to fall asleep. The first time he slept through a single night was one of the best nights he ever had. He woke up fresh, alive and rejuvenated. And the adults kind of made a celebration out of it. Nothing flashy, but Mr. Stark ordered the chef to make Peter's favorite dish for dinner, and then afterwards, Mr. Stark brought out another surprise.

He gave Peter permission to wear the Iron Man helmet—only for a few minutes. It was crazy! The helmet had so much going on. The interface displayed power levels, both radio and radar sensors, and it had FRIDAY communicating to him at all times.

“Wow! I always wanted to know what goes on inside. Now— _I know_ ,” Peter grinned behind the Iron Man mask, as he rotated his head to look at everything around him. “How does this stuff not overwhelm you?”

“You get used to it,” Mr. Stark answered, "and realize how helpful it is when needed.”

Peter wished he had one. An interface to assist in his Spider-man activities. Or, well, when he did his Spider-man patrols around his neighborhood. His old mask did nothing, but make it harder for him to breathe.

“Oh man, wish I had one of these when I was Spider-man," Peter said as he took of the helmet. "Would have been so helpful on my patrols."

His relationship with Mr. Stark changed again. He became more than an intern. Peter managed to insert himself into Stark's little family unit. He no longer needed to receive an invitation to go up to Stark's residence. He walked in, unannounced, and it wouldn't be awkward or odd. Mr. Stark and Pepper found it normal for Peter to be lounging in the living room, snacking on a bag of chips. He sometimes did his homework in the living room for greater space to spread out his work. When not doing his homework, Peter ran down to the boxing ring to practice his rounds. Happy would come only after FRIDAY alerted him Peter was hitting the bag without supervision. Not that he needed to be supervised on hitting a punching bag, but Happy came to give him proper instruction.

Every night, Peter ate dinner at the dining table with Mr. Stark and Pepper, if she didn't have to stay in the city for work-related reasons. Occasionally, Peter dined alone as Mr. Stark had to stay late for work, both for Stark Industries and the UN. But, even then, Col. Rhodes or Happy or Vision would be with him. Or check-in. Make sure he was doing okay. 

Peter enjoyed Col. Rhodes' company. He was much more relaxed, despite his military background and posture at times. He was able to laugh off jokes and enjoy simple things, things that Mr. Stark probably didn't know existed as his wealth spared him. They watched movies, buying new ones from iTunes.

"Tony won't notice," Col. Rhodes said right before he purchased  _Alien_ , a classic that Peter needed to watch before he fell asleep. 

And when they weren't eating Mr. Stark's snacks and buying off movies from his account, Peter learned different tricks and combat tactics in a close-range fight. Naturally, Col. Rhodes supported the idea to avoid confrontation all together, but he offered a few tips to help Peter win a fight if necessary. 

“In the end, you're not fighting," Col. Rhodes told him. "You're defending. That's what you are doing. Defending yourself and others. Nothing more.”

That made a lot of sense. Mr. Reynolds drilled the idea that fighting meant winning. All that mattered was defeating the bad guy to win. Not that you were doing it for defense. Not oppression. 

After their practices, Col. Rhodes praised him effort and said he could see Peter as a big-time hero in the future. "You're going to be one of the good guys, kid."

Peter liked to think so. He hoped he was living up to the reputation of his uncle. Living up to the man's legacy. The future Uncle Ben wanted for him. He wanted to be the good man his uncle was. 

Both as Peter Parker and as Spider-man. 

Despite all the domestic life he took up at the Compound and all the attention he received from everyone at the Compound, Peter felt out of place. An outsider. An intruder, really. He knew it was odd of him to think of it like that. It's not that he craftily tricked Mr. Stark to bring him into their lives. Mr. Stark willingly introduced him and granted him entrance into his world, with an invitation to stay forever. Yet, Peter couldn't stop the insecure feeling that this was not where he belonged.

He was a poor boy from Queens, who lived in a cramped bedroom, ate cheap, processed meals and tried to complete his homework with spotty Wi-Fi access. That was what he was used to. That was home.

Well… his old home.

He lived at the Compound now. He slept in spacious a bedroom, ate chef-cooked gourmet meals three times a day, and owed a set of the most advanced technology systems on the planet. He had personal trainers, instructors and an AI that controlled his bedroom and answered to any of his commands or questions. He hung around heroes—Avengers!—everyday. It was a life that the boy from Queens would never, ever imagined to happen to him.

Life at the Compound became the new normal for Peter. That was his new life. His new home.

The boy from Queens was gone.

And Peter didn’t know how he felt about it.

* * *

Peter awoke to someone shaking him awake. He turned over, groaning as he attempted to lift his heavy eyelids up. The room was dark. Whoever was shaking him didn't bother to turn on the lights.

"W-What?" he grumped, not taking it kindly to be shaken from slumber. 

“Focus up, Crockett.”

Peter blinked and rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes in a last-ditch attempt to get them awake. His vision adjusted to the dark and he saw Mr. Stark standing by his bed, looking down at him. He didn't look scared or worried. And Peter's spidey-sense wasn't going off. So, why was Mr. Stark harassing him to wake up at... three in the morning?

“Mr. Stark? You know it's three, right?”

“Yeah, which is why I need to ask you this right now," Mr. Stark said, getting straight to the point. "Are you interested in touring Stark Industries?”

Peter crinkled his face, bizarre that was the immediate reason for the ungodly wake-up call. "That's the emergency question?"

“Peter—”

“I, uh, yeah," Peter answered, restraining a yawn. "Yeah—I would love to see the place. Pepper was saying she wanted me come visit.”

"Good. It's settled," Mr. Stark announced and without another word, he strode across the bedroom back to the door.

"That's it?" Peter called after him, perplexed why he was aroused from slumber to answer a question that could have waited until morning.

Mr. Stark paused at the door. "Oh! Yeah, we're leaving seven sharp in the morning," he said to Peter, shooting him a wink. "Go back to bed."

"Wait... w-what? Today?” Peter threw off his blankets to go after the man. “Are you serious?”

Mr. Stark poked his head back into the room. “Kid—if I wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t be talking to you now,” he answered. “Get some rest. Don’t need you to be cranky.”

And like that, Mr. Stark was gone, leaving Peter in a befuddled mess. He dragged his fingers through his hair, looking around the room, half believing it was all a dream.

“KAREN?”

“Yes, Peter?”

“Was Mr. Stark just in here?”

“Yes. Mr. Stark left your room a minute and twenty-eight seconds ago.”

“Did he say something about leaving in the morning? To Stark Industries?”

His AI answered in the affirmative. “Yes. You are scheduled to leave at seven this morning to visit Stark Industries.”

Not a dream. Peter looked back to his clock. It counted up, scaling to the number seven. He only had three more hours of sleep. Three more hours of rest, but Peter’s hyperactive mind took over. In three hours, he would be traveling to Stark Industries. The world’s famous technology conglomerate. The company he and Ned often fantasied of working at one day and now… now he was going to visit it.

How was he ever going to go back to sleep after that revelation? Peter fell back to his bed, eyes up on the ceiling. A little giggle on his lips as his eyes shined bright.

“I’m going to Stark Industries,” he muttered in wonderment, “with Mr. Stark… is this even real?”

“Yes,” came KAREN’s reply. “It is very real.”

* * *

Ten minutes ‘til seven, Peter hauled a packed duffel and went out to the corridor to find Mr. Stark. He was surprised to find someone already standing outside his bedroom door. Someone dressed in a bodyguard capacity as Peter noticed the communicator in his ear. Must be one of the SHIELD agents that currently coincide with Mr. Stark and the United Nations.

The agent directed him to the elevator. A personal escort. Maybe Mr. Stark thought Peter would get lost heading to the garage. They climbed into the elevator and Peter expected a descent, but it moved up. They were going up.

“Um… I think I’m supposed to meet Mr. Stark in the garage or something,” Peter told the agent.

The agent shook his head. “Mr. Stark is up on the roof.”

The roof?

The elevator doors parted and Peter soon learned why. A helicopter parked on top of the landing pad, right over the normally visible 'A' for Avengers. The blades were swinging, chopping the wind into slices of burst combustions in different directions. Peter had to use his adhesives and muscular strength to support his balance from the strong winds.

A strong grasp around the back of Peter’s head forced him to bend down. The agent muttered him to start hurrying, keeping his head ducked as they hurried to the helicopter. The sound grew louder, almost like a thundering boom. Peter rolled his eyes up, eyeing the low-swinging blades that dangerously came close. He could feel the air ruffle through his hair, causing it to stand straight up. Peter bowed his head a little more. After all, decapitation wasn’t his preferred way of dying.

The door slid open and Peter got bundled inside, his duffel taken to be loaded.

“Hey there, squirt.”

Mr. Stark. Already seated, groomed and completely relaxed. He had his aviation headset around his neck and tinted orange sunglasses over his face. He acted very much at home sitting on a massive metal vessel that would shoot them up into the sky.

Peter immediately looked for his seatbelt. He struggled, trying to get it untangled from one another. It was an odd seatbelt. Reminded him of life vests than a seatbelt. Peter fidgeted as he looped the belts out of knots, his hands trembling as he tried to get himself fastened to safety.

Then, Mr. Stark leaned forward and helped. He took the seatbelt from Peter’s hand and easily untangled it and got it up over Peter’s shoulders and then fastened it in front of his chest.

“Ever been in a helicopter?”

Peter shook his head. “Never flew before.”

“Well, all you gotta do is sit and the rest is done for you.”

The pilot announced their intentions to go. Mr. Stark flashed them a thumbs up and pulled up his headset over his ears. “Here—” Mr. Stark revealed another pair and placed it right over Peter’s head, cupping both ears. “There—now you can have the full experience.”

Peter fidgeted in his seat. “W-Why aren’t we driving?”

“Pepper wants us there early and Happy is with her. No chauffeur, no car.”

Peter’s brows dipped in thought. “But… don't you usually drive yourself, anyway?”

Mr. Stark was slightly taken aback. “Well... yeah. I usually prefer to drive myself, but this is quicker.”

A little jolt rocked the helicopter, wobbling as it rose. Peter clasped his seat, double-checking his seatbelt to ensure it was fastened well.

“Are you nervous?”

Peter rapidly shook his head. The blades blared over them and a pressure bored right into Peter’s head. He winced at the slight pain, squinting in reaction to the sharp grumbling of the engine.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Stark promised, squeezing Peter’s shoulder to keep him calm.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?”

“Yes. We’re hovering only a few feet,” he assured him. “Peter, it’s okay. You’re going to be fine. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Peter remained tense. The pressure continued to drill into his head, and his ears filled with intense buzzing sounds that wouldn’t seem to ever end. Why couldn’t they take a car? Peter would have preferred his feet on the ground.

“Peter.”

A hand took his chin and directed it to face Mr. Stark. The man looked serious, but calm. Not at all afraid. “It won’t crash.”

Peter’s heart skipped on hearing that word, but Mr. Stark continued. “And if it did, you’d be safe.”

“Because of my super-fast healing?”

“Because I would catch you.”

Oh.  _Oh._  Peter didn’t realize Mr. Stark had his Iron Man suit on hand. He scanned the small passenger compartment, looking for the famed briefcase that carried the valuable and indestructible suit. He didn’t see it. Maybe it was in a hidden compartment. Somewhere only Mr. Stark knows and can get to in time if the helicopter started to fall.

Peter’s stomach flew up suddenly, causing him to grip his seatbelt and squeeze his eyes shut. Don’t throw up, he scolded himself. Not on Mr. Stark. Not all over the fancy helicopter's seats.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Stark reassured him. “We’re just gaining altitude.”

Altitude. Higher then. They were going higher.

“Peter? Look.”

Peter slowly peeled his eyelids back, seeing Mr. Stark directing his attention to the windows. Oh, no. He didn’t have any interest to see how high they were up.

“Gorgeous, right?”

Peter didn’t look. “Yeah.”

A low sigh. “Peter— _look_ ,” he said, pushing Peter to look out the window.

“I’m good.”

“You really are afraid of flying, aren’t you?”

Peter gulped, but shook his head. “No—I'm… enjoying the scenery here.”

Mr. Stark broke out in a laugh. “Yeah… because the seat cushions are exciting,” he remarked. “Look, just take a quick peek to your left. You won’t regret it. And if it would make you feel better, I’ll let you hold my hand.”

It was an obvious tease. A tactic to pressure Peter to look. It kind of worked. Peter didn’t want Mr. Stark to think of him a coward. After all, there was nothing dangerous about looking. A quick look. He could handle that.

Peter rotated his neck. His gaze shifting from the seat cushion to the glass window that reveled a massive color of dark and luscious greens. Peter jumped a little and Mr. Stark’s hand found its spot on Peter’s shoulder to hold him still.

“See?” Mr. Stark said, pointing to the open range of nature below them. “Beautiful right?”

It actually was. Large canopies branched across the green space before them. The sunrise’s gold light glazed the land in rich colors, dawning them awake and in awe. Peter leaned a little closer, spotting the small cottages and barns speckled here and there, farmlands that rolled on forever.

A woven tapestry of nature and towns, with traffic a silvery vein through it all. No boarders. Everything mingled together into an enchanting motion pictured as they flew onward over the world. It made Peter feel like a god, looking down at all of creation.

Soon, nature started to give way to more homes that turned into bigger buildings. The traffic grew heavier, the veins bulging with an assortment of colors. Then, trees faded into the lamppost and billboards and Peter couldn’t spot grass. A rush of a train came into view, driving straight through the crowded buildings, heading overhead and crusading forward, deeper into the city.

The helicopter trailed after the train, charging ahead toward the towering skyscrapers that all challenged one another on height and presence within the skyline. Yet, only one completely dominated. Only one had the flair of attention compared to all the others. A startling beauty amongst the skyline.

And it was the skyscraper the helicopter headed, hovering over another large 'A' on a helipad. Peter’s stomach flipped again as the blades slowed, the aircraft dropping faster than he expected. He grabbed his seatbelt, fingers tight on the straps as the helicopter balanced itself out before it settled on the ground.

The winding down of the blades and the pressure in Peter’s head eased up, signaling the end of the ride. 

Peter quickly unhooked his seatbelt, ready to jump out of the helicopter to be on solid ground. Mr. Stark had to reel him back in to keep him from jumping out with the headset. They exited the helicopter and Mr. Stark thanked the pilot as the co-pilot fetched Peter his duffel, returning it to him.

“Good ride, son?” the co-pilot asked.

Peter nodded, too afraid what his words may be if he spoke. He clutched his duffel to his chest as Mr. Stark made his way to him. He slug an arm around his shoulder, directing him off the helipad.

“You did good, kid,” Mr. Stark complimented. “You see? It wasn’t that bad.”

No, it wasn’t, but Peter preferred road trips.

As they moved off the helipad and down a ramp to an open lobby, Mr. Stark smiled warmly at Peter. “Welcome home, Peter.”

Peter looked up at the building, spying the massive Stark logo that once was titled Avengers. Peter gawked up at it, neck craned back as far as it could before he shifted his gaze, turning to look everywhere else.

He spotted the Chrysler Building first, followed quickly by the Empire State Building. The Flatiron building next and then the Brooklyn Bridge. And, further out, he saw Freedom Tower, rising among the buildings around it like a phoenix, dominating the attention of all in its circle of fire.

Peter’s mouth hung open, eyes round as he took it all in.

New York. He was back in the city.

Peter was led down the ramp into a large, open lobby. Similar to the Compound in style, the inside was rich, sleek and minimalistic that screamed wealth and professional. Peter was even afraid to step on the black marble floor, afraid he would break it or smudge it. Ruin it in some manner. A person like him didn't belong in a world lavished with private helicopter rides, people waiting on him and walking on pitch black marble. 

Mr. Stark, however, didn't notice any of it. He strutted across the lobby, pass the fancy architecture and furnishings that was worth more than Peter's entire existence. "Hurry up there, short stuff," he called. "I'll show you the party deck later."

"Party deck?" Peter scrutinized the whole room again. This was a room to party?

Mr. Stark shrugged. "For corporate events, celebrations, etc.," he replied. "It's nothing. Elevator is here."

They rode up, ascending floor after floor until it reached near the clouds. It was the penthouse suite. Peter noted the homey style to the one at the Compound. A lot of natural light from the floor-to-ceiling windows, making the whole penthouse shine and sparkle. FRIDAY greeted them and Peter returned the pleasantries, which always humored Mr. Stark. 

“Lemme give you a quick tour," he started. "Obviously, this is the living room, kitchen down to the right, bathroom across and that over there is...”

Mr. Stark rattled on, but Peter tuned him out to gaze at the majestic view. Clouds hovered slightly above them, with a vivid blue sky peeking from behind with good promises. Rows of skyscrapers stretched below him, with roads cutting through them in a grid pattern all the way down until it met the sea. Peter barely heard the city life below. His hearing only picking up the shrill of sirens and sharp blares of aggressive honks. Everything else was quiet. Too far away to be heard.

Standing so far away from civilization, residing up in the clouds, Peter felt like a god, looking down upon the world’s greatest city.

Strange for a boy of Queens, a boy of taped backpacks and old sneakers, to see the world from such heights and perspective.

“The view from top is always better," Mr. Stark said from behind, coming right next to Peter by the large windows. "From here you can see Lower Manhattan, Brooklyn, Staten Island (if you want, but you can always avert your gaze), and... you can even see the Statue of Liberty from here.”

Peter peered and sure enough, he spotted the green lady rising up from the sea.

Mr. Stark directed Peter to the other side of the penthouse. "Over here we got the entertainment area. TV and everything. Pep's and I's room is in that direction and this way..."

He turned Peter around to another door, opening it. "... is your room."

Expectantly, the room was smaller than the one at the Compound. New York City was notorious for small living space, but the room deigned for him during his stay was still big by the city’s terms. It contained a queen bed, large closet, and a shelving unit with exact books found in his bedroom back in the Compound.

"Didn’t have enough time to fully redecorate,” Mr. Stark explained as Peter dropped his duffel on the bed, checking the place out. “The rest of the stuff will come sometime this week. Supposedly.”

“Stuff?” He thought the room was generous as it was, considering he wasn’t going to live in the Tower permanently.

“Desk, chair, monitors, computer, telescope,” Mr. Stark listed off. “Even ordered a lightsaber. Not the plastic toy one either.”

Peter’s mouth fell opened. “A w-what? Are you serious?”

Mr. Stark smiled. “Of course. Always serious on fictional toys,” he teased, but then sobered up quick. “Shipment was just delayed. Nothing I could do about it, but once it comes in, we can get it all set up in here however you want it. Sound good?”

Sound way more than good. Basically unbelievable. He meandered through the bedroom, going right up to his massive windows that pooled natural sunlight into the center of his room. A single glance, he caught sight of the biggest park in New York City, stretching two miles right through the middle of the packed city. The shadowy Bronx resided beyond, its cramped three-story building bundled together as it circled the exclusive Yankee’s stadium in the distance.

Peter frowned at the stadium. Yankees suck. The motto of the Parker’s residence.

Mr. Stark followed his gaze. “Big baseball fan? I can get us tickets for this week. Believe the Yankees are playing the Blue Jays,” he said. “Front row? Right where the foul balls go. Or box seats? Any seat you want.”

“Oh, um... that's okay, Mr. Stark," Peter’s gaze moved away from the stadium to the rest of the scene. "This is a great view. You can see everything.”

“That's the point. On this side you get Central Park, the Bronx, Randall’s Island and Queens," Mr. Stark beamed, pointing at each neighborhood. "Basically the penthouse gives you an eagle’s eye view of the entire area of New York.”

Peter didn’t realize. The whole apartment sat at top of the stunning tower, with windows as walls to give each room a different view of the world below them. They saw miles and miles of everything from the top of this tower, never missing anything. New York laid at their feet.

He heard Mr. Stark sigh. "It's good to be home, isn't it?"

Home.

Peter side-glanced back to Queens. The distant sprawling city across the bridge lulled in a deep, browning gloom, unglamorous compared to the high tower he stood. Funny to think that while everyone looked up toward him, in that spectacular, lofty tower, he looked on toward them, desire building in his chest. Only a window pane away from him. Roads and trains winding through the buildings and over rivers, all those cars and subways leading straight to the edge of the earth. All the way back home.

His old home, he reminded himself. Queens was where he used to live. 

And yet, Peter couldn't stop the tugging desire to run straight there. 

A gentle nudge rubbed against his side. “C’mon,” Mr. Stark said. “The view will stay. Pepper’s waiting. She thinks you would be interested in visiting the R&D floors first.”

* * *

Peter loved the Research and Development department!

The department composed of three floors, each floor consisted of teams to find different usage of technology that would be beneficial to society and financially profitable. Peter’s favorite section was the team tasked to design products to help disable veterans. He spoke with Dr. Gray Armond, incessantly jabbering about the mechanical concepts Dr. Armond’s team were currently working on to support veterans with nerve damage.

Dr. Gray Armond was nice and patient, answering all of Peter’s endless questions. At times, Peter got the feeling he annoyed the man. Not that the scientist would ever tell him, especially with the great Tony Stark standing nearby. The good scientist probably would have entertained Peter all day and night to appease his boss and not be fired.

Peter doubted Mr. Stark would fire any of them. All them were experts in their field and beyond talented in their developments. Peter understood that the business kept them busy, but everyone seemingly took the time to be introduced and make acquaintances with him. Almost everyone lined up whenever they walked onto a new floor. It got to the point that Peter’s hand was tired and sore from all the constant handshaking. Again, Peter got the feeling they only did it to earn Mr. Stark’s approval. Otherwise, he doubted they would even take gander at him.

Pepper met up with them later for lunch, having a meal at the restaurant down in the lobby. Peter was allowed to order whatever he wanted. When he got the menu, his eyes bulged at the listed prices. There had to be a mistake. No food would ever cost this much. Even the appetizers cost at least three paychecks.

He looked up from the menu to Mr. Stark and Pepper. Already, they had their menus closed, discussing about a meeting Pepper attended and Mr. Stark avoided.

“You were supposed to be there, Tony.”

“Couldn’t find a babysitter,” Mr. Stark remarked. “What? Don’t look at me like that. When have I ever gone to one of those meetings? Trust me, everyone doesn’t want me there.”

They kept bickering until a waiter arrived for their order. Pepper went first, next Mr. Stark and then the waiter turned to Peter.

“And for you, young man?”

Peter glanced back down at the menu. “Um… Um… soup.”

Mr. Stark incredulously raised his brows. “Soup?” he repeated, deadpanned. “Kid—you didn’t eat any breakfast this morning.” Pepper shot Mr. Stark a vexed look. “What? I got him here.” He turned back to the waiter. “Give us a minute.”

The waiter obliged, promising to come back later. Mr. Stark twisted in his seat to Peter. “Okay—what’s the problem?” he asked, “’Cause I know you’re starving and soup isn’t going to fill you up. What? You have trouble understanding the menu or something?”

Peter shifted in his seat, looking from Mr. Stark back to the opened menu in his hand. “I can't afford it.”

“What?” Pepper said, eyes squinting and head lowered to hear. Even Mr. Stark looked a bit puzzled.

Peter averted his gaze down, moving his shoulders in. “I can’t afford it,” he said a little louder as his cheeks pinked. “Everything is… pricey.”

Pepper and Mr. Stark shot a look to one another. Then Mr. Stark cleared his throat. “Don't worry about that,” he told him. "Order whatever you want."

"But—"

"We have money," Mr. Stark stated, reassuring Peter that it wasn’t a hindrance. "If you want the steak, get it. Or the ribeye, or the oysters..."

Peter glanced back down at the menu and saw the oysters listed in the seafood section. "Do they come with pearls?"

Pepper's soften face cracked in laughter. "Oh—if they did, I ordered the wrong meal!"

Mr. Stark slowly shook his head, smile peeking up from beard. "Unfortunately, they don't, but you can still get it," he said. "You don't need to worry about money, Peter. Order what you want."

As if on cue, the waiter returned to the table to get Peter's final decision. Peter went with the steak, which Mr. Stark promptly doubled the order ("Remember? You didn't eat breakfast."). As the kitchen busied making their meals, Pepper asked Peter about his time in the R&D department. Peter enthusiastically babbled everything that came to his brain. He talked about the disability equipment, the prosthetic prototypes for spinal cord injuries and helicarrier's invisibility cloak. 

"There was also this biotech thing to help paralyzed patients be able to feel again," Peter rambled as he tried to recall what the researcher said about her product. "It targets their dead nerves to revitalize them, and it that works, then maybe it could be used to help diabetic patients too. Cancer patients as well."

Pepper smiled. "I know what you're talking about," she said. "It's part of our new health program. After everything that happened with New York and the Avengers, Stark Industries thought it should go into health technology as a way to help those injured in such catastrophes. A way to repay any and all damages done. We're holding ourselves accountable."

He remembered New York. The destruction. The collapsed buildings and roads and subway tunnels, all slowing the normally busy city to an almost standstill for months. People said it was as bad as 9/11. Some say it was worse because it opened to the fear that they may not have power over those from outer space. Peter saw the damages when he went with his aunt into the city. He saw the barriers. The roped sections and dump-trucks and men in black suits and sunglasses. He saw policemen patrolling the barriers, keeping everyone out. He didn't see bodies. They were taken away long ago before he walked across the site of the battle. But, he knew people died. A lot of good people died. 

That guilt must claw at Mr. Stark's insides forever. No wonder he directed so much of his money and time into the health research, created subsidiaries to assist any and all catastrophes that occurred under the Avengers' watch. Mr. Stark must blame himself for all the consequences that followed the Avengers. No wonder he agreed with the Accords. It would be something like a weight off his shoulder. 

Pepper suggested he come with her the next half of the day. She would show him other departments that keep companies like theirs afloat, such as human resources, personal relations, marketing and accounting. Not exciting things, but Peter didn't have the heart to tell her that he preferred to stick with the R&D. 

Lunch came to the table in record time, and Peter was amazed by the aroma that filled his nostrils. His mouth watered as the first steak was settled right before him. Then someone from behind took his napkin to fold it on his lap. Peter immediately stopped that. 

"I can do it, thanks," he said, taking the napkin. Why would a waiter need to put a napkin on his lap? He wasn't a baby!

Napkin on lap and utensils in hand, Peter admired the perfectly seasoned, seared steak. It looked exactly like a million dollar steak as advertised. Peter cut into the meat, juice following right off the tender meat and pooling underneath. He stabbed it, raised it to his mouth and slipped it right into his mouth. 

Peter melted into his seat. Never had he ever tasted such deliciousness in his life! The meat was tender, breaking apart right in his mouth. He hardly chewed the pieces before he swallowed another. His face was right up to the steak, shoving piece after piece into his mouth until he heard Mr. Stark's voice calling to him.

"Slow down, Pete," the man advised. "You're going to choke if you eat it like that. C'mon, one piece at a time."

"Sorry," Peter mumbled, sitting back in his seat. "It's just... really good. Like this is the best steak in the world. Hands down"

Mr. Stark smirked. "And you were going to order the soup," he reminded Peter. "Glad you are enjoying it, but don't let it kill you. Chew, then swallow. Savor the best steak in the world."

Peter slowed his eating, enjoying the satisfaction he had. Once he licked the first plate clean, the waiter brought the second plate, much to Peter's delight. He had forgotten he was getting two. 

As he ate, other paying patrons stopped by their table to talk to Pepper and Mr. Stark. They greeted them with pleasantries, asking how they were and how the company was doing. Pepper was polite. Her talk minimum, but Mr. Stark, depending on who came up to the table, was easy to dismiss or quick to repartee with them. Some laughed it off and others scolded in his direction. 

Only a handful of the visitors looked at Peter. They stared at him, unashamedly expressing their surprise and aversion to his mere appearance. Like they knew Peter wasn't one of them and wondered as to how a lowly boy like himself ended up at the table with the world’s most powerful couple.

"Who's the kid, Anthony?" one man commented as his green eyes bored down at Peter. "Didn't know you to being around youngsters."

"This is Peter," Mr. Stark introduced, but not really. He gave no inclination to have Peter shake the man's hand.

"He’s interning at Stark Industries," Pepper added after Mr. Stark refused to go into more details. "He's a brilliant boy."

The man studied Peter. Eyes narrowed into a severe judgment, picking Peter apart in an almost flippant dismissal. Peter's appearance did not impressed the damper man with sleeked hair combed back from his forehead and fine threads for his sport's jacket. Nonetheless, the man placed a fake smile on his face.

"How do you do, Peter," the man said. He did not extend a hand to Peter. "I'm Norman Osborn."

Peter's eyes widened at the name. "You wrote a paper on nanotechnology."

It was meant to be a casual statement. A polite compliment. Instead, it sent waves over the table. Pepper turned her head to him. Mr. Stark's eyebrows flew up and Mr. Osborn appeared almost startled, taken aback.

"Why... yes," Mr. Osborn said after a quick composure. "I did a few years back. You read it?"

"Yes."

"And you understood it?"

Peter noticed the questionable brows on Mr. Stark's face. "Err... yes," he said, hands smoothing down his pants. "I like science."

Suddenly, Peter became more interesting to Norman Osborn. The man looked back to Mr. Stark, who fixed his face again to one of nonchalance. "I see why you keep him around," he commented to Mr. Stark. "Can't lose that. Am I to expect to see you at the gala tonight?"

The question was directed at Peter, who redirected the question to Pepper and Mr. Stark with a single, confused look. 

Pepper quickly answered. "Oh, Peter’s not going to be there."

Mr. Osborn clicked his tongue in disappointment. "What a shame," he said. "Would have loved to talk more about _science_. Another time, perhaps?"

"All right, Normie," Mr. Stark grunted. “You got your two minutes. Good bye!”

Mr. Osborn frowned at the brush off, but gave Pepper a tight smile and an apologetic one to Peter. He strode away, doing his best to save face as others looked on at them.

The second Mr. Osborn was away, Mr. Stark spun to Peter.

"You read his papers? Don't read his papers,” Mr. Stark warned. “It’ll rot your brain. Read comics instead. Far more stimulating.”

Peter obediently nodded without pause. Pepper, however, sighed heavily. “Tony… don’t poison his mind.”

“I’m not,” argued Mr. Stark. “Pete probably already knows it’s all crap.”

“Tony!”

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes, half-heartily shrugged as a compromise to stop talking poorly about Osborn. Unlike the two of them, Peter didn’t really care about Mr. Osborn. His thoughts were ticked with questions about what Mr. Osborn said.

“What gala was he talking about?” he asked them.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Mr. Struck brushed off. “A lame party.”

Pepper shot him an annoyed look. “Stark Industries is hosting a charity gala tonight to support children’s hospitals,” she answered Peter’s questions. “And it’s mandatory that the owner and CEO make appearances.”

She directed that last comment to Mr. Stark. That meant Mr. Stark couldn’t back out of it. Not like he did with the meeting that morning.

“You know?” Mr. Stark started, sniffed as he glanced at Peter for a second. “Why can’t the kid come? I mean, it’s better than sitting at home.”

“It’s an adult party,” Pepper reminded him.

“So?”

“It means no kids,” Pepper turned to Peter, apologetic. “Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay,” Peter said, not at all offended. “I don’t really do parties anyway. Not that I get invited to many. Or any. T-That’s not important. I just…kind of prefer my space. So, parties aren’t me.”

The two adults stared at him. Peter’s cheeks burned, rolling his lips as he wished he didn’t ramble on about his social life. They must think he’s some pathetic loser.

Then, Mr. Stark snapped his attention to Pepper. “Oh, now we _really_ need to bring him.”

“No.”

“The party would be ten times better with him there. Don’t deny it,” Mr. Stark tried to convince Pepper. “You would find it far more entertaining with Peter there.”

“Peter won’t have fun, Tony,” Pepper counter-argued. “He’s a kid! Did you like all the parties your parents dragged you to?”

“That’s different. This is us. I’m way more fun than my dad.”

“Tony—let Peter have his night. I’m sure he’ll be exhausted and I bet he didn’t pack a tux in that bag of his.”

Mr. Stark studied Peter for a quick second. “I think I have a suit that could fit him.”

“ _No_.”

Peter watched the two bicker. They were fast, each jabbing the other with words without pause or falter. Almost like married couples he’d seen on television. Wait… were Pepper and Mr. Stark married? He thought they were engaged.

In the end, Pepper won, much to Peter’s relief. He didn’t have to attend the gala. He didn’t have to dress fancy, socialize with smart and powerful people or be critically judged by those who didn’t know him. A much needed postponement of his inclusion to that world.

With Mr. Stark and Pepper busy for the night, it freed Peter to do the one thing he had wanted to do since he arrived back in the city.

Return to Queens.

* * *

Peter sat on the bed, watching Mr. Stark try to pick out the right shirt, and then the right tie and jacket to go with the shirt. Mr. Stark was telling him the importance of dressing right for any and all occasions.

Mr. Stark looked suave and rich. Everything was on point, including the man’s posture and the air around him. Peter, no matter what clothes he wore, would never be able to pull it off. Mr. Stark carried that confidence and attention well enough. He could walk in sweats and people would respect him. If Peter did that, he would be booted to the curb. And mocked.

“There,” Mr. Stark fixed his bow-tie. “Well—not exactly how I want to spend my night, but things you gotta sacrifice for.”

“I thought you like parties.”

“Occasionally,” Mr. Stark agreed, checking himself in the mirror, “but not these. These are schmooze fests. People wanting to talk shop and politics. Rub shoulders with you in hopes your luck or money will fall right into their pockets.” He adjusted his sleeves. “You know—things that drag a party.”

“Pepper seems to enjoy them.”

“She puts up a nice front,” he said. “It’s just part of the job, kid. Gotta network. Even with other assholes.”

Finished with the suit, Mr. Stark gestured Peter to follow him out. They returned to the living room and Peter plopped himself on the couch as he watched Mr. Stark double-check the time.

“So—got any big plans for tonight?” Mr. Stark asked.

Peter stiffened. For the past few hours, he considered telling Mr. Stark of his plans to visit his aunt. Go to Queens and just say hi. Or have her come to the Tower. But, each time he got the nerve to tell him, Peter faltered and backed out. Too afraid the answer would be no. Too afraid it would mean a babysitter for the night to ensure he didn’t try while they were out. And Peter didn’t want no. He didn’t want to be told he couldn’t see his aunt. Peter didn’t want that answer and; therefore, he didn’t talk to Mr. Stark about it.

Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.

So, Peter shrugged and said, “No, probably just work ahead in my homework.”

Mr. Stark rolled his eyes as he exasperatedly shook his head. “Nerd,” he muttered. “C’mon! You get the whole apartment to yourself and you’re going to study? No—you need to do something else.”

“Like what?” There wasn’t much else he could do.

“I don’t know, but you’re young only once,” Mr. Stark said. “Don’t waste it on learning things that you can learn later. Do what rebel teenagers do. Throw a kegger. Drink booze—actually. No. Don’t do that. Leads you to horrible life choices. But, you gotta do something other than study.”

Peter gave another thought of telling Mr. Stark. It would be a lot easier for Peter to go through Mr. Stark to get to his aunt. It would make Peter feel a lot better knowing Mr. Stark had his back against the UN. It was on the tip of his tongue to confess, but the words choked at the back of his throat.

He couldn’t do it. Deep down, he couldn’t tell Mr. Stark. The man wouldn’t agree to the plan at all. Would claim it to be too dangerous. The UN would be watching. They would find him and take him away. Send him straight to the hole to rot.

Peter gave in and changed his words. “Okay… maybe I’ll watch a movie.”

“Rated R,” Tony jested with a wide smirk.

Peter shook his head, mimicking Mr. Stark’s eye roll when he heard the sound of heels clattering closer and closer. He picked his head up and spotted Pepper walking into the living room.

She looked absolutely stunning! Her dress was a long, green gown with a respectable V-neckline that featured a crystal rose embroidery along the waist. Hair done in natural waves and make-up minimum, if any at all.

Pepper looked extraordinary beautiful and approachable. Almost the complete opposite of Mr. Stark. It had crossed Peter’s mind multiple times that Pepper was way out of Mr. Stark’s league. Mr. Stark was a lucky man.

Peter continued to stare, doe-eyed and hypnotized. “You look beautiful, Pepper.”

His statement surprised Pepper. Her eyes widening a bit before her cheeks tinted pink. Meanwhile, Mr. Stark gave him a long side-glance before he teasingly scolded him.

“Hey! That’s my line,” Mr. Stark suddenly quipped, and then he turned back to Pepper. “He stole my line.”

Pepper playfully rolled her eyes, used to Mr. Stark’s wit and sarcasm. “Thank you, Peter,” she said. “That’s very sweet of you,” She then gave her attention back to Mr. Stark. “All set? Got a car waiting downstairs.”

“Yep,” Mr. Stark said, holding out his hand to lead Pepper to the doors. “All set to get this over with.”

“Peter? What about you?” Pepper called to him. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

Peter nodded. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be fine. I’m used to being on my own,” he reassured Pepper. “You guys have fun.”

“Oh, we won’t,” Mr. Stark avowed. “But thanks anyway. Now—if you need anything, let FRIDAY know. Or Happy. He’ll be downstairs. If you’re bored, call him up. He’ll do whatever it is. Just remind him that I’m paying him.

“And if it’s something serious, call me,” Mr. Stark said, tone changing into a more somber expression, “I mean it. Call us if you need us.”

Peter nodded. “Okay.”

Mr. Stark was satisfied with the promise. “Good—we’ll be back soon enough. These parties never last long.”

“For you,” Pepper corrected. “You leave fifteen minutes after it starts.”

Mr. Stark merely shrugged, unconvinced. “Anyway, we’ll be back soon and tomorrow, we’ll do something together.”

Peter followed them out to their private elevator, listening to Mr. Stark making wisecracks and dishing out suggestions on how to spend his time. Most of them were things Peter would never do, and at one point Pepper slapped his shoulder, which Mr. Stark promptly reneged. In the end, he resigned to his last advice.

“Just don’t do anything I would do. And definitely don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Mr. Stark said to him as the private elevator arrived to take them down to the lobby. “Just… sit tight here until we get back.”

And with that last parting instruction, Pepper and Mr. Stark were gone, leaving Peter alone in the apartment all by himself. He didn’t waste any time. He bolted for his room, unzipping his duffel and digging out for his web-shooters.

Time to gear up.

* * *

It was easy to escape from the Tower. Using his web-shooters, he swung himself over to another rooftop before hoofing it down through a series of escape ladders. The need to limit his web-shooters were crucial for success. If news reached the government that he was swinging through the city, unsanctioned, Peter’s freedom would be at stake. As well as Mr. Stark. Peter didn’t want him to get in trouble. Not after everything he’s done for him. But, Peter needed to see his aunt. Too many days passed and with all the memories of Ben returning, Peter needed to visit his aunt. If only for a quick minute.

Peter arrived on the streets, popping up his hood. No one noticed. He was unseen by pedestrians. All distracted by their mobile phones and their immediate destination. Peter blended in the crowd, hitting the subway station, jumping over the railing to grab the F line out to Forest Hills.

He took his seat on the subway car, noticing the different, creative ads promoting mattresses and Seamless. It was a long ride from Manhattan to the edge of Queens, so Peter sat back, thinking what he would say or do when he saw his aunt. At each stop, people shifted in and out. Beggars preached, calloused hands outstretched for a single coin. Peter felt guilty for not having anything. Mr. Stark didn’t give him money. If Peter ever needed anything, Mr. Stark only needed to snap his fingers and it magically appeared. Or at least, that was how it appeared to him.

Peter also kept track of the people coming and going from the subway car. He noted the blonde-haired woman, pursed right atop her lap, face frozen and eyes straight ahead. There was a big African American, slouched near the doors, phone in hand and bobbing his head to the music playing out of his phone, not at all giving a damn about others preference. Another African American sat across from Peter, dressed in business attire, tie knotted around his neck and a briefcase snugged to his side. His body rocked against the motion of the subway. He was holding onto a book, doing his best to read despite the wavering motion of the ride.

None of these people have gotten off the subway since Peter joined. When the passenger across from him glanced in his direction, Peter slouched and looked away. Keep a low profile. Don’t draw attention. Peter checked his web-shooters. Still invisible by his hoodie’s billowing sleeves. The man went back to his book and Peter relaxed, if only for a little bit.

It was dangerous for him to be out in the open. He worried that maybe he should have told Mr. Stark of his plans. Spoke to him about wanting to see Aunt May. He may have come up with a better idea than hitch a ride on a subway and hope no one noticed. Hope the UN wasn’t watching him. Mr. Stark probably would crafted a fail-safe plan to reunite him and his aunt. Even if it was against the government’s orders.

His gut squeezed, an ache running across his abdomen. It was a bad idea. He shouldn’t have run off. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If he got Mr. Stark in trouble with the UN… Peter nervously ran a hand down his face. Doesn’t matter anymore. The deed was done. Peter couldn’t turn back nor would he.

The subway came to his station—7th Avenue. It looked the same as always. Long tunnel with green, metal pillars to keep the peeling roof from collapsing. Unappealing and foul smelling, like old pee, as mice mingled down below on the tracks. Good, old New York.

Peter climbed up the stairs and reentered the world, the night air tickling his skin in greeting. Queens Boulevard was alive. Shops were alit, lights bright and a colorful array of objects cluttered the windows to lure in customers. He walked passed Rite Aid, Subway, Austin Dental and local businesses that do their best to stay afloat. Peter walked past several empty commercial buildings. The long deserted Moe’s Sneaker Spot stayed unfilled, empty. The local grocery store Foodtown stayed hopping despite it nearing closing time. Peter spotted an employee carrying the keys, getting ready to lock the front doors. Groups of people loitered outside their respective bodegas, sitting in lawn chairs and playing dominos or talking loudly over the music blaring from their stereo that have hooked up to a nearby car. Good, old Queens Boulevard.

Peter walked passed it all, turning off onto Ascan Avenue. He charged ahead, striding through his old neighborhood, passing churches, Chinese restaurants and threading saloons all to get to his old street. His old building.

He spotted his street sign. Turn right. Pass the streetlight. Past the closed up mailboxes. Over the uneven sidewalk that constantly trips people and twist their ankles. Peter hurried down the sidewalk, coming to a halt when he spotted the high-rising apartment complex.

It was nothing compared to the Tower. The Tower was all sleek, modern and innovative. The apartment building before him consisted of yellow and red brick, black window frames and a single, manual door that was the lone entrance into the building. Air conditioners hung outside the windows, most of them making a rickety sound as if the screws were loose. Best to avoid standing underneath any of them.

Peter hesitated to enter through the front door. What if someone was watching his aunt? What if the UN had spies tailing her, ensuring that they were kept apart? Peter scanned the area from a safe distance. He didn’t see anything unusual, but then again, professional spies at work. They could be hiding in that pile of garbage and Peter wouldn’t know until it was too late.

Waltzing through the front door wasn’t an option. However, there was another way.

Peter backtracked, going to the street behind the apartment complex. There was no door to enter, but Peter didn’t need a door. He only needed a window. He craned his neck back, spying his old bedroom window from where he hug the shadows. Eleven floors up. He could do that.

Fingers latched on the brick, Peter scaled. It was like old times when he was a newbie hero, trying to find ways getting in and out of the apartment to perform his civic duties without Aunt May knowing. Peter climbed, avoiding any window that had a light on. He couldn’t be seen. He needed to stay in stealth mode.

He got to his bedroom window. He peered through the glass, spotting his Mets pendent on the wall. It was his room. Peter unstuck one hand from the brick and placed it on the window. He gently lifted and the window came with the pull. Peter smiled. His aunt never noticed it was unlock. Then again, she doubted anyone would scale eleven floors. He wouldn’t.

Peter quietly opened the window and slunk in, climbing on the ceiling. He scanned the room and when he saw the door closed, Peter relaxed. As quiet as possible, Peter dropped from the ceiling to the floor. His landing made no sound. All that practice with Mr. Reynolds helped him in that covert tactical. Peter closed the window, sealing it as he turned to take in his room.

It was not the way he left it. His chessboard was missing. His X-wing model gone. So was his set of Legos. His dartboard was gone as well. And why were there all these boxes in his room? Peter checked them, spying May’s scribbled writing on the side: Goodwill, Salvation Army, Library… _Trash_?!

Peter cocked his head. What? He opened the box labelled Library and found his collection of Stephan Hawking books nestled inside the box. Why did his aunt pack up his favorite series? Peter looked around the room. His bunk-bed was stripped. The sheets, blankets and pillows were all gone. Only a bare mattress left behind.

What the—

A clatter spooked Peter. He jumped, swiveling in a circle and back to the door. Sounds of rummaging and the clicking of the gas to light under the stove-top alerted Peter someone was in the apartment. Someone was outside, unaware of his presence.

Aunt May.

Peter swallowed, hand stretched for the door. He cracked the door opened, knowing the speed he needed to go to avoid the creaking sounds of an old door. The sounds grew louder, coming straight from the kitchen. Peter stepped out, moving down the corridor so quiet, it was almost as if Peter was a ghost, haunting his old stomping ground rather than alive and heading to meet his aunt.

Rounding the corner, Peter stopped.

Aunt May was in the kitchen. Her long, red hair hung behind her as she tried to get the kettle to work. A mug was on the countertop next to the stove, a tea bag ready. Her nightly ritual of warm tea, three cookies and reading the latest chick-lit book. She wore her favorite blue jeans with a red tank-top, socks on and sliding about the kitchen tiles to get what she needed. Unaware that her nephew was behind her, watching with a sad smile.

His face burned and Peter knew tears were coming.

God—he missed her so much and seeing her only a few feet away made him never to want leave her again.

May suddenly spun around, hand reaching for one of the drawers. She casually glanced at him, not comprehending at first. But, then she jumped, jerking away and grabbing on the counter-top for balance before freezing in stunned fright. 

Peter stiffened, recoiling for a second as he stared, wide-eyed at his panicked aunt. May looked as beautiful as ever, but the fear and shock coursing through her made Peter feel guilty for startling her. He tried to speak, but his words were too thick and his throat tight, too overwhelmed with a canopy of difficult emotions. And May, petrified as stone.

Peter breathed. His lungs loosened up from the overall shock to say something to break the tension. “H-Hey, May.” 

May stared. Then, her eyes rolled back behind her head, swaying before plummeting.

“ _MAY_!”

Peter caught her before she crashed onto the tile floor. Hoisting her up, he carried her to the couch. She looked paler than ever. Heart drumming, Peter rushed back to the kitchen, grabbing a washcloth and opening the freezer for ice cubes. He didn't know much about first aid. It wasn't part of his training regiment, but Nellie often gave him an ice pack. 

He knelt beside May's head, dabbing the cold cloth along her forehead. "C'mon, May," he muttered. "You're okay. Please be okay..."

He may have said that more for himself, but he watched his aunt's eyes fluttered. Her head turned, face compressing at the cold touch of the ice melting through the cloth onto her forehead. 

"May?" Peter said, lifting the cloth away. "May? Can you hear me?"

May blinked once. Twice. Then her eyes widened at Peter before she lurched back, scrambling up the couch. 

Peter raised both his arms. "No-no... no, it's okay, May. It's me... It's just me."

May's breathing was fast. Rapid and shallow, eyes wide as saucers and lower lip quivering in utter astonishment and disbelief. "That's not possible."

"Huh?"

"Y-You're dead."

"What?" Peter worried May had actually hit her head when she fell. "May—I'm not dead."

"I-I saw... your body," she stuttered, her lips quivering with every word. "You were in the morgue…”

The _morgue_? That was ridiculous! Yet, when Peter inquisitively peered at his aunt, she was serious. She truly believed he was dead.

"No! May I’m not… I'm not dead," he said, firmed. He took her hand, held it in his own, feeling the heat between their palms. "See? I'm alive. Very alive."

May looked at their hands then back to Peter, her expression fading from shock to muddled confusion, “B-But… how?"

"I never died, May," Peter insisted. "I—Look, it's a long story, but I'm back. I'm here. It's me, Aunt May. Really."

May studied Peter's face, uncertain, but hopeful. He could tell she wanted it to be true, if only for her own sanity and heart. She pulled her hand out of Peter's grasp, moving both hands to Peter's head, cupping the sides as she continued to study long and hard at him. 

Tears stung Peter's eyes as he swallowed hard, looking back at his aunt. Please remember me, he thought. Please. _Please!_

May drew out a long, heavy breath. "Peter?"

Peter, sniffling through his tears, smiled. "Hey, Aunt May."

Suddenly, Peter was yanked over the couch and captured in the tightest hug he ever felt. May bawled, crying into his hair and pressing him close to her. He hugged her tight too, rocking slowly side to side before he dropped his head to her shoulder. Peter breathed in, smelling Aunt May's lavender scent from all the essential oils she dabbled in. She always smelled like flowers.

God—he missed her. Everything about her.

Peter didn't know how long they stayed in that embrace, but May eventually pulled back to look at him. One more time for confirmation. Her face was blotchy. Eyes red and irritated as her face creviced, a deep crack that broke her normally strong mien. More lines showed on her face than he last remembered. She wiped away tears as she took slow and deep breaths to calm the rising hysteria.

"Peter… where have you been?" May said with a frail trill. “Where did you go?”

“I was upstate.”

“Upstate?” May looked at him with confusion. “What? What were you doing there?”

“I was at the Compound.”

“Compound?”

“Avengers Compound.”

May didn’t blink. Face stunned and muddled, unable to comprehend everything Peter told her. He thought they told her. He thought Mr. Stark took care of it, told her what happened. How did she not know where he was? Why did she believe he was dead?

Her blank expression stayed and Peter got a horrible feeling in his gut. “Didn’t Mr. Stark talk to you?”

May’s face scrunched together in great puzzlement. “Why would he talk to me?” she questioned, voice pitching in emotion, tired and done with all the unanswered questions. “What’s going on? Peter—what were you doing? How come you didn’t call me? For nine months, I lived with the belief you were dead and all this time you were alive? Upstate? W-What? Why didn’t you call? Let me know? You don’t do this, Peter! You don’t… you don’t disappear on me like that! I mean… god! Do you have any idea how it felt? Living all alone here thinking I lost the last of my family? Believing my kid dead? Burying him!?”

Peter’s heart dropped, falling into a deep abyss. A low rumble reached the back of his mind, pulsing as guilt’s dark curtain closed around him. He didn’t mean to hurt her. He never wanted that and if she knew how much he missed her, she would know that he truly didn’t want to hurt her.

None of it made sense to Peter. Mr. Stark updated him. Told him about his aunt, spoke about his amendments to the Accords to get him back to his aunt. He assured Peter that he was working on it, that his aunt was informed of everything. That everything was okay.

Yet, his aunt sat next to him, tears returning to her eyes. Droplets spilled out and over her rosy cheeks as her wrecked state broke even more as she stared at her nephew. Both in happiness, confusion and grief. Peter sniffled, doing his best to not cry with her. He hated when she cried. And he hated it even more when it was his fault for her tears.

“I’m so sorry, Aunt May,” Peter blubbered, trying to keep his voice steady and strong. But it sound more brittle and unsteady. Even as both his heart and head pounded in panic and pain. “I thought they told you… Mr. Stark said he talked to you. Explained—”

“No one called except the police!” May freaked, mouth drawn in grieving frown. She started to cry again, dropper her forehead on her propped hand. “They found you. Asked me to come to the morgue. ID you. I… worst day of my life. To find my missing child dead.”

"But...  _I_ called you. I left a message."

May shook her head. "Peter—I didn't get a message from you," she said. "And trust me, I would know if my dead kid called me."

Peter's brows pinched together. "But Mr. Stark..."

May crossed her arms, frustratingly befuddled. "What does Stark have to do with any of this?"

Everything, Peter began to realize.

His head was swimming. The pounding worsening. It grew loud, the rumbling noise overpowering his aunt's words to him. It filled his head, nagging and picking at him. It demanded his full attention and it certainly had it.

And, slowly, Peter realized it was not a migraine. 

It was his spidey-sense!

Peter jerked his head up, leaping to his feet. "We need to go!"

May looked startled by the sudden announcement. "Go? Peter—are you okay? You don't look good."

Peter brushed aside her concern. All that mattered was fleeing the apartment. Trouble was coming. Danger lurking closer and closer. "Trust me, May," Peter pulled her up from the couch, gripping her hand tight as he tugged her along behind him. "We gotta go now! I'll explain everything—"

He stopped. The front door. His spidey-sense shocked him. _Warning_! _Warning_! _Impending doom_. 

Peter backtracked, causing his aunt to collide against him. "Peter? What's going on?"

The answer came in a mass explosion. The front door burst and a roaring fire followed, licking the ceiling and walls. Pictures flew off the wall, shattering, and the coat stand next to the door toppled before it splintered into pieces, burning into ash. Smoke fogged the front of the apartment, making his vision hazy.

The explosion rocked Peter and May off their feet. Peter's head drummed on, despite the other aches he gained from being flung aside. May was next to him, hair all over her face and groaning as she tried to recover herself. Her hand reached over, trying to find him. Peter grabbed hers, pulling her up. They had to move before...

"Hey there...  _Itsy_   _Bitsy_!"


	20. The Longest Night

Powers!

Without hesitation, Peter shoved Aunt May back into the living room. “Run!”

Peter scuttled right after her only to feel something wrap around his legs. Then, a sharp tug. Peter crashed, slamming his chin hard on the floor and his jaw rattled in pain. Another jerk and he was dragged, away from his aunt.

Hands roughly flipped him, banging his head hard. Dazed by the sudden throbbing pain, Peter blinked up and saw Powers looming over him, grinning ear to ear. “Where you running off to, Itsy Bitsy?” the man jeered. “Don’t ya wanna catch up a bit? You know… have that good, old fashion class reunion?”

Peter squirmed, frantically tugging at the binds around his leg. Powers chuckled, overjoyed at watching his captured prey struggle. “Oh man,” he said, pulling something that resembled a yo-yo out from his satchel, “this is too awesome! Can you believe it, Jackie? Here we are, wearing sheriff badges, with orders to kick the crap out of the little prince.”

Another figure stepped out from behind Powers. Peter recognized him instantly. It was the guy from the library. He was with Bullseye, encouraging the man to take out Peter’s eye with a pencil. He strutted into the apartment, eyeing the idyllic apartment. His dark tuft of hair was haphazardly styled and the jagged scar running down his face twisted into a cruel sneer.

Jack-O’s eyes lit up, like tiny sparks of fire when he spotted Peter tangled on the floor. “It only happened in my dreams,” he muttered as he gave a hard kick to Peter’s side. “But—boy! I’m sure glad to be living out one of my dreams.”

They both cackled in glee, enjoying their dominance over Peter. 

"You remember, Jackie, don't cha boy?" Powers mockingly asked Peter. "Like me, he's missed hanging out with you." 

They laughed again, but their laughter was cut short by a panicked scream.

“Peter!”

All eyes flipped up to May Parker, standing in the middle of the small entrance between the foyer and living room. Her face was blanched, but eyes wide with terror at the two men standing over her nephew.

Powers jerked his head at Jack-O and ordered, “Handle the girl."

Jack-O’s devilish grin grew wider as he passed Peter, heading right to Aunt May.

Peter freaked. He abandoned the rope around his legs and fired a web right at Jack-O’s feet. It stuck and landed. Jack-O tripped and crashed into the wall, startled by the sudden restraint.

Powers cursed. “His shooters!”

Peter whipped around and fired a round at Powers. The man jumped and dodge, moving out of webbing’s mark, which gave Peter the advantage to undo the binds. Freed, Peter leapt to his feet right Jack-O burned away the webbing around his foot. The man’s hands were flaring up, sizzling as he turned to face Peter.

Powers cried from the kitchen. “Finish him!” he shouted. “I’ll go after her.”

Jack-O’s face grew redder and redder until it burst into flames, resembling a jack-o-lantern. Peter was momentarily startled by the sudden inferno, but with Aunt May’s life in danger, Peter surged into a fighting frenzy.

He remembered his training. The boxing and martial arts. The strategic strategies to fight in close combat. Peter recalled them all as he planted a fist right into Jack-O’s stomach. The flaming head gagged out smoke, but he didn’t go down. It only made the flames coming from his head burn hotter.

Jack-O struck out, fist punching through the air right to Peter’s head. But, Peter was quicker. He easily dodged it, swiping to the right and counter-attacking it with a strong blow right in the crook of Jack-O’s elbow. The hit sent Jack-O spiraling, losing control of his limbs and giving Peter the opening to slam his fist twice into Jack-O’s back, incapacity him.

Then, Peter heard a terrible cry from the living room. His lungs went cold. “May!”

He charged, sprinting into the living room to find Powers taunting his aunt with his homemade gadgets, firing little sparks at her feet, legs, arms and face. May was doing her best to avoid them, throwing things at him, but it only delighted the maniacal man.

Blood pounding in his ears, Peter launched himself over the couch and coffee table right into Powers. He slammed into him, knocking both of them down into a tumbling wreck. The sound of a loud crash was heard underneath him as he and Powers rolled along the floor. Both had each other’s hands, wrestling and warring for the upper hand.

At that moment, Peter had no strategy. Nothing. All he thought about was keeping Powers away from his aunt. And punching a dent into the man’s face for threatening her.

Peter added more pressure, turning Powers’ wrist at an awkward angle to the point the man’s bones creaked. Powers gritted his teeth as he restrained as much as he could. But the determined look remained in the man’s eyes. The look of pure hatred and anger. Probably mirroring Peter’s own.

Then, Powers eyes flinched and a sting of warning alerted Peter something was about to happen. His reaction was delayed and a nasty fireball slammed into his back, throwing him off Powers and colliding into a wall with a sickening thud.

Oh, that hurt. God—was that his flesh? Was that nauseating smell his burnt flesh? Peter bore the pain and stomached the smell as he scurried up in time to watch Powers and Jack-O band together to confront him. Both eyeing him like a prized dinner.

Peter took a deep breath. Game on.

They both attacked. Jack-O shot out a fireball to which Peter dodged and he fired off another web at the man’s hands. His fiery fist burned through easily and he stormed up, head still alight like a flaming pumpkin, came punching right at Peter’s face. Peter twisted away, high-kicking Jack-O in the side that tossed him out of the living room like a rag doll.

Powers’ maniacal laughter was heard before seen when he tossed a handful of what appeared to be bouncing balls at Peter. The all shot off, exploding like fire snaps. The fire nipped at his clothes, sizzling holes right through to his skin. Peter patted it out into smoke before he met Powers face-to-face.

A flash of yellow flew at his face, smacking it hard against his skull in a sickening crack. Peter spun, tripping over his legs and collapsed. Head spinning, Peter slowly got back up in time for Powers to hurl his wound yo-yo back at his head.

Peter fell back down, spitting out blood on his aunt’s rug.

“No!” screamed a voice that blurred within the noise in his head.

He heard hurried footsteps, followed by something being thrown into the air and… missing. It shattered on impact against the wall, raining debris over Peter’s legs.

Another object was thrown and this time, it seemed to hit its target. Peter heard an intense growl from above.

“You little  _bitch_!”

Peter’s eyes widened. May! He scrambled to his feet, blood dribbling from his mouth as he watched Powers wind up his yo-yo to hit an unprotected May.

“ _NO_!” Peter plowed right into Powers’ side, sending them sideways once more. They flipped over onto the couch, knocking the contents on the side-table right off. Peter landed on the floor, Powers on top of him.

Powers rough hands clasped around Peter’s neck, thumbs digging right into his throat. Peter’s lungs burned in desperation. He couldn’t breathe! He couldn’t… he hacked and coughed, trying to force airflow, but Powers only pressed tighter and his grin widened.

Peter grabbed the man’s wrists and yanked Powers’ hands off his neck. He tucked in his knees and kicked out. Powers flew across the room, crash landing into May’s desk and rolling right off, knocking down her laptop, pencil cup and papers in a gigantic flutter.

Sucking in a deep breath, Peter crouched into position. He glanced over to his aunt. “Get out of here!” he shouted at his aunt, before he lunged right after Powers in hopes to give her the needed distraction to run.

Powers was ready. He tossed another ball and it exploded, smoke filling the space in-between them. Vision distorted, Peter blindly tried to punch Powers, but all he got was air.

Powers didn’t. His yo-yo weapon hit Peter square in the chest. It exploded, knocking Peter right off his feet. He landed awkwardly on his arm. No crunching sounds of broken bones, but it was most likely severely bruised. His ears rung and pain that struck his spine, spread up the rest of his back to every other nerve in his body. Everything ached. Nothing was spared.

He rose to get up, scrambling back to his legs when he got hit again. This time by a powered fist. “You piece of shit!” Powers growled, punching Peter in the face. “You little pest! Why can’t you just die like any other bug!?”

The repeated blows winded Peter. Hit after hit, it was like a constant rumble of his bones creaking, nearly breaking from the repetition. His mouth pooled with blood, sloshing around over his tongue and teeth. He raised his hands up to protect his face, but Powers snatched them.

“How does it feel to be the bottom of the barrel, now?” sneered Powers.

Peter didn’t answer, too busy trying to keep himself afloat. He moaned, head lulling to the side and blood drooling over his busted, swollen lips. God—he was tired. Dead tired.

Powers throttled him for a response, but a shadow came over both of them and a bowl slammed on Powers’ head.

It didn’t do much damage. It forced Powers to let go of Peter, who collapsed on his back, groaning as his head banged against the hard surface of the floor.

Then, Peter's blood ran cold when Powers spoke. “Imma gonna kill you, bitch.”

Peter lifted his eyes up. May was backing away, swallowing her nerves down as she boldly faced Powers. If there was one thing he knew about his aunt was she never backed down. She was as brave as her husband. That frightened Peter the most.

May went to hit Powers, but her strength was not match against his. He caught her, spun her around so that her arm was twisted behind her back, and then, with a cruel laugh, he rammed her head into the wall.

Peter’s heart shattered as he watched Aunt May’s head crack against the plaster. She went limp, eyes rolled away and disappearing behind the skull as she collapsed over the broken pieces of their memories.

She was still. So still.

“No… no,” Peter croaked as his energy revitalized him, surging within him. He sprung up, climbing over the broken table and the debris to get to his aunt. “No, no, no…”

But he never got to his aunt. A hand latched onto the collar of his shirt and flung him across the room. He flew overhead, landing hard and rolling right into the kitchen. The crash landing knocked all the wind out of him. Momentarily stunned, Peter twitched, his muscles trying to accommodate to what his screaming mind wanted them to do. But, it hurt to move. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to do anything other than lay still and hope it all ends.

Of course, it didn’t. Something seared right into his leg. Peter screamed in agony, jerking his leg away from the source of its torture.

Jack-O apparently recovered. He now loomed large over Peter as Powers came up to join them. Both wearing matching glares.

Powers stomped over, snatching a fistful of Peter’s shirt and throwing him into the kitchen cabinets. Peter’s back stung on impact, the knobs on each cabinet drilled right into his tissues in the most uncomfortable manner. He slid down, almost falling onto the stove that was alight and the forgotten kettle squeaked out a faint, feasible whistling sound. Not yet hot, but getting there.

Peter turned to avoid hitting it, hoping to simply fall to the floor when Power returned, snaring another fistful of his shirt and shoving him up against the cabinets. Then, a hand went to his throat and squeezed.

Peter heaved, coughing and choking as he clawed at Powers’ tightening grip. Yet, everything thing he did, received a slap across the face, burning a print on the side of his cheek. His throat continued to close and his breaths grew more and more shallow. Hard and difficult. Lungs expanding as wide as possible. Almost bursting.

Powers smirked at the struggle. “I’m going to enjoy every second of this,” he uttered, staring directing into Peter’s eyes. “Watching the life fade from your eyes by my own hands.”

“Boss wants him alive, Powers,” Jack-O called behind him.

There was an immediate aggravation at the reminder. Powers pouted, but his grip only loosened a millimeter. The windpipes still pressed severely close, air barely coming through to Peter’s lungs. Black dots were polka-doting his vision as Powers soured.

“Spoilsport,” Powers remarked to Jack-O.

Jack-O only shrugged. “Torture him all you want, but gotta keep him alive, pal.” The man then pulled a comm device from his own satchel and started talking. “This is Operative Six. Little Prince is secured.”

Peter heard static and then a croaky voice. “ _Cuff him and sit tight. Sending unit in._ ”

Jack-O put away the comm. “You heard 'em, Powers,” he said, digging through his satchel again and pulling out a pair of thick handcuffs. “Cuff him, so that we can—”

“ _GET AWAY FROM MY KID, BASTARDS!”_

Jack-O whipped his head around in time to see Aunt May fly right at him. In her hands was her prized Tiffany lamp, the one she loved and Ben purchased for her thirty-fifth birthday. She always had it on whenever she read or worked at his desk. It was her most prized possession and treasured it even more after Ben passed away. But now, she used it as a weapon, slamming the pretty lamp into Jack-O’s neck. The colored glass shattered and Peter watched Jack-O collapse on the spot with jagged mosaic pieces protruding from the side of his neck.

May’s surprise attacked left Powers and Peter stunned. Peter never felt more proud to be related to her. It revitalized the fight within him. With Powers incapacitated by the sheer surprise, Peter took the chance to free himself. He lifted his leg and slammed his foot down on Powers's knee. Powers let out a howl as he partially collapsed from the lack of support. The madman’s hands slipped from Peter’s neck to his injured knee, freeing Peter from his grasp. But, Powers wasn’t down though. Not like Jack-O.

Peter snared the whistling kettle and slugged it against Powers’ face. Twice.

The steaming, hot water poured right onto Powers’ skin and a horrible stench invaded. Powers screamed in full-blown terror, staggering backwards with his hands over his face.

“ _Fuck_! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” Powers cursed, hiding behind his covered hands. “My face!”

Peter didn’t care. He grabbed his aunt’s hand and bolted down the corridor, dragging her with him as they raced to his old bedroom. Peter nearly threw his aunt inside before he closed the door, locked it and started to shove boxes up against the door.

May stood frantic behind him. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god! What’s going on? Who are those guys” she asked. “Peter—how do they know you?”

“Long story,” he replied, pointing to the back of his room. “Go to the window!”

It was their best chance to escape. Once Powers and Jack-O recover, and the unit arrives, they would be sitting ducks, trapped and at their mercy. There was only one way out of this situation and Peter was going to do it.

May, however, looked horrified. “The window? Peter—that’s a seven story drop! We can’t climb out the window,” she exclaimed. “We’ll die!”

“No, we won’t,” Peter said, hopping over boxes and thrusting the window open. The humid air swarmed inside the tiny bedroom. “We’ll be fine.”

“Peter—”

“May! We don’t have time to argue,” Peter shouted. “Trust me! Okay, just… trust me!”

May was taken aback by Peter’s forcefulness. She swallowed whatever her argument was going to be and hurried to the window, looking out with doubt and fear.

Peter, however, stayed calm as he climbed out on the ledge. “Climb on my back.”

“Climb on your… Peter! That’s crazy! You can’t—”

A burst of loud commotion interrupted them. The unit arrived at the scene. Now, there was no more time.

“Aunt May, get on my back right now!” Peter ordered. “I’ll explain everything to you later, but right now… get on my back and hold tight!”

May did as told. She climbed onto her nephew’s back, her body tensed and rigid. Not at all relaxed or trusting. He didn’t blame her. She thought tonight she would be relaxing on the couch, drinking tea only to discover her nephew was alive, two crazed individual beating them up and their apartment entirely wrecked. And now, they were dangling over the window sill, looking over a seven-story drop. Certain death for all humans.

Not for them.

The bedroom door banged. The wood groan in retaliation of the brute force trying to smash through the door. It sounded like a battling ram. They were desperate to get into the room.

Time was up then. Peter had to go through with this. He checked his best options and spied the perfect rooftop for a safe landing. He shot out a line of webbing, hooking it against street light pole.

Secured, Peter wrapped the webbing around his wrist. “Hold right, Aunt May,” he warned her. “And best to close your eyes.”

“Peter, what are you dooooo—”

May screamed when Peter pushed off. They swung down, going fast towards the pavement before Peter tugged up, narrowing missing the street as he swung them both up into the air. He flicked his wrist again, shooting another strand of webbing to another light pole as they turned, coming up on the landing strip Peter marked.

Meanwhile, May's terrified screams rang in his ear. She didn’t close her eyes and her grip around Peter’s waist squeezed even tighter than a snake coiling around prey. It sent his stomach right up and Peter thought he may vomit from the pressure, but everything stayed inside when they landed on the dark rooftop. 

May's screaming stopped, but she didn't unwrap her arms from him. She stayed in that tight grip, too petrified to even utter a word. 

"May? May?" Peter called as he managed to unfasten her arms from him to get a good look at her.

She was stiff, arms at her side, dust and smoke lightened her clothes and skin. But, what scared him the most was the blood splattered on her clothes and a purple bruise forming right above her eyebrows, swelling the skin to form a monstrous lump growing out of her forehead. 

Claws scratched away at his heart, making him bleed as he stared at his injured aunt. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She wasn't supposed to get hurt. She wasn't supposed to be forced out of her home, fighting for her life against armed men intent on killing him. He ruined her. Peter knew that and he wished he never stepped out of the Tower. If only to spare her from this mess. 

"Are you okay?" He knew she wasn't, but what else could he say?

May blinked. Her mouth flapping like a fish out of water, trying to speak. Her voice trembled, knees wobbling from all the adrenaline pumping in her. Her breaths were so shallow, quick and fast as if trying to keep up with her racing heart. 

Then, with round eyes looking at him through her cracked spectacles, she choked. "Y-You jumped. You...  _flew_!"

“I swung," Peter corrected. "But that's neither here or there. We need to get off this roof. Need to find a place to hide.”

Peter hurried to the ridge, checking the sides of the buildings for an easy escape down. He found a fire escape, leading down to the alleyway between the two buildings. "Over here," he gestured his aunt to come. "Start climbing."

They quickly descended down a series of metal ladders until they reached the asphalt. Certain they couldn't be seen, Peter went to explain. "We need to find a safe place to hide," he told her. "Somewhere he can't find us.”

“He? Who's he?" May asked, her voice almost shrilled. "You mean Stark?”

“I mean anyone who might come after us,” Peter clarified. “They won’t stop. Especially now.”

May dug her fingers into his scalp, eyes pinched closed in distress. “What the hell is going on?” she asked. “How did you do that? How—w-what is happening? Peter?  _Peter_?”

She looked confused. Scared and confused. Her eyes were focused on him, waiting desperately to be told something other than the horrible truth sinking both of them into this nightmare. Peter wished he could brush it aside. Say it was an honest mistake. Or that it was all a dream, but he couldn’t.

He never planned to tell his aunt about Spider-man. She already lost so much and to know her only child was risking his life… it would break her heart.

But there was nothing he could do about it anymore. The attack, the lies and the witness of him using his abilities to get them to safety all needed an explanation before May fell into a fit of hysteria.

Peter took a deep breath. “I’m… I’m S-Spider-man…”

He let his words fade in that single breath and braced himself as he watched his aunt. May froze, eyes wide again.

This is it, he thought. This is the moment that will kill her.

The moment felt very brief and very long all the same. Peter never seen his aunt so terrified. All pale and spooked, like a ghost and she didn’t he budge or breathe. Peter was afraid. Not for himself, but for her. Did he kill his aunt with such revelation?

He suddenly wanted to take it all back. Manipulate it into a joke. A gotcha! moment. But, even he struggled to speak and he wanted to cry. Everything happened so fast. Too fast and now, he wanted to cry.

Peter blinked back the tears as he watched May look away from him. She sucked in several deep breaths to control an oncoming outburst of… something. Anger. Sadness. Guilt. It all crossed her face like fluttering shadows.

She rolled in her lips. “H-How? _When_?” she uttered. “I-I… _how_?”

Peter’s voice wavered. “A s-spider bite,” he answered, swallowing. “It just happened and I… I wanted to tell you, but so many things happened. And with Ben, I-I… I didn’t want to worry you. I swear I was careful! Very careful! I don’t even know how they found out, but May, please! I didn’t mean to hurt you. Seriously, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Not to you. Definitely not you.”

His gasped for breath, feeling his barriers crumbled. Tears welled, desperate for comfort and fearing rejection.

But then May moved, tottering up to him as the fear melted into anguish. Peter stood still as May cupped his face. Her large, brown eyes studying him with a brokenness deigned for him.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” May murmured, carding back his hair form his forehead. “You’re all right. I’m not mad, Peter. I’m not mad. Okay? We’ll get through this, okay? Like we always do.”

Then, to Peter’s greatest relief, she pulled him in for a hug. Peter sagged in her arms, dropping his head on her shoulder and hugging her back.

“Is that why you were gone?” May asked. “Is that why they attacked us? Because of your… powers?”

“Yes,” Peter replied, regretful that his alt-persona brought trouble into their home. “I’m so sorry, Aunt May. I didn’t want this to happen at all. I just wanted to come home… a-and see you! I really missed you and I’m sorry for everything. I don’t—”

His aunt hushed him, pulling back to look at him straight in the face. “You stop that now,” she ordered. “It’s not your fault. Okay? You didn’t ask to be given super powers. So, you stop that thinking this instant. Understood?”

Peter nodded, sucking in a breath to calm his nerves.

“Good,” May said, affirmed. “Now—we need to get to a hospital. Your head is bleeding.” She gently touched his forehead, to which Peter winced at the slight sting. “And then we need to call the cops. Tell them everything.”

“No!” Peter shouted, shaking his head so fast that the roof spun. “No hospitals. No cops!”

May was taken aback. “Peter! You were kidnapped! We just got attacked in our home! We need to let the authorities know!”

That was a bad idea. If he remembered anything from the Compound, it was that the authorities were on the government’s side. Calling them to their attention would only result in Peter being taken away from his aunt.

“No, we can’t trust them.”

“But Peter—you’re bleeding! You could get an infection.”

“I heal fast,” Peter said before shifting his weight on his feet. “One of my powers.”

May blinked, sharply inhaling. “You’re going to have to tell me more about all of this.”

“I will. I promise, but right now, we need to get off the streets,” Peter said, nervous for being outside this long. They needed to find shelter. Somewhere no one could find them. “Do you know anyone nearby? Someone you can trust?"

“No—no, I don’t," May responded, stressed in her thoughts. "What about Ned? He doesn't live far.”

Peter shook his head. "That'll be the first place he looks."

Mr. Stark knew about Ned. Peter told him a lot about his friend from Queens. Peter wouldn't doubt Mr. Stark sent men to stalk Ned and his home. Going to him wasn't option. 

May let out a stern breath. "This is his fault, isn't it?"

It would be easy to say yes, but Peter wasn't sure. More like he didn't want to be sure. "I don't know."

"Well, I do. I definitely blame him," she snapped and then paused for a second. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? I mean… there wasn’t any—”

She left her sentence to linger in the air, hoping Peter understood the underlying message of her unspoken words. He did.

“No! No—he didn’t hurt me,” Peter assured her. “No mad science experiments, I promise! I’m okay, May. Really.”

“… okay,” May said, uncertain, but then frowned deeply. “Going to punch him in his big-headed, smug face if I ever see him.”

Her comment drew out a chuckle from Peter. He could picture his aunt punching Mr. Stark in the face. After all, he just witnessed her stab Jack-O in the neck with a lamp. He wouldn’t doubt his aunt’s ferocity ever again.

May snapped her fingers. “I have a colleague who lives in Elmhurst,” she remembered. “If we can take a taxi—wait. I don’t have money on me. Do you? No? That’s okay. It’s not too far of a walk. She’s nice. She’ll let us stay the night.”

Peter hoped so as she was their only option at the moment. The next part, however, wasn’t going to be easy. The neighborhood was probably already on full alert and shut-down by agents. All of them hunting for him. It wasn’t going to be easy to sneak out Forest Hills. It would have been easier if they did have money to take a cab, but luck was never really a thing for them.

“Okay. Let’s go,” said Peter, hopeful in this plan, “and once we get there, I’ll tell you everything.”

“You better.”

They headed to the street, getting closer to the mouth when it became barricade by a big presence that filled in the gaps. Peter skirted to a stop, surprised by the sudden appearance of a man. 

Then, the man spoke. "Peter."

Happy Hogan. 

Peter instantly backtracked, grabbed his aunt to pull behind him. Instead, his aunt shoved Peter behind her, spreading her arms out wide to block any trace of him from Happy. Peter tried to get around her, but May refused to budge from her stance in front of him. 

He heard her growl. "Don't you take another step," May warned, "or I will kick your ass!"

Her fierce declaration surprised Happy, who looked befuddled by the statement and slightly afraid. "Uhhh... okay, um... not sure who you are, but I need to speak to Peter."

Peter could see Happy trying to crane his neck to look around Aunt May. But, Aunt May reached over to the litter pit and yanked out the closest thing. It was a broken umbrella, but she wielded it like a sword, pointing the sharp end at Happy's face. 

"You're not talking to anyone, but me, pal," May's tone was sharp and low. Made more threatening by the hardened expression in her face and the blood splatter on her clothes. 

Happy realized she was serious. "Look, I'm unarmed," he said, displaying his empty hands. "See? Nothing. I just want to talk. We can do that, right?"

May didn't look convinced, but Peter knew Happy. He wouldn't hurt them. He acted all tough and gruff, but harmless overall. He would only put up a fight if necessary and right now, he was calling a truce. Or whatever.

Peter put his hand on Aunt May's arm. "It's okay," he said, stepping out from behind her, despite her protest. "What do you want Happy?"

Happy looked relieved to see Peter, but still eyed Aunt May nervously. "What are you doing?" he said, sounding disappointed. "Running off like that. After Tony told you to stay put. What were you thinking?"

“I was thinking of home. I was thinking about my family.”

Happy glanced back to his aunt, eyebrows bunched together. "This your cousin?"

"Aunt," May corrected.

Happy's eyes widened just a bit before they blinked in confusion. "Okay... okay," he muttered, eyes closed for a brief second to regain composure. "All right, so um… nice to meet you. Can you put the umbrella thing down?”

May only raised it a little higher.

“Fine,” Happy grunted, moving his eyes passed the umbrella and back to Peter. “Kid—what are you planning to do? Huh? Did you even think this through?”

Not fully, Peter admitted to himself. He didn’t necessarily come with a plan. He came to only see his aunt. Not to fight for his life, flee with his aunt and be hunted down like an animal. If he knew any of that would happen, he would have come up with a better plan than standing in an alleyway like a fool.

Happy took his silence as a negative. “Jesus, kid… I know your smart, but this was dumb! Did you really think you could just go back to your old life? You can’t just run off playing Spider-man.”

“I wasn’t running off to play Spider-man!” Peter said, fist clenched. “I wanted to go home! And you guys weren’t letting me. You wouldn’t let me go!”

“Did you even think to ask first before jumping out of a hundred story building?” Happy said. “Tony would have made arrangements if you had asked.”

Peter shook his head. Maybe he once thought Mr. Stark would do just that for him. But the longer the night became, the more Peter realized how wrong he was. Doubt took hold, ripping up his world like old wallpaper coming down. It stripped him emotionally bare. He didn’t know what to believe as everything suddenly had double-meanings and hidden truths.

But, at the moment, Peter knew he couldn’t trust Mr. Stark. Or Happy. Or anyone other than his aunt. 

“What’s your plan now, Peter?” questioned Happy. “What are you and your aunt going to do next? Because, I can tell you right now, it won’t be good if I don’t bring you back.”

The umbrella thrusted toward Happy. “Don’t you threaten my kid,” May thundered.

Happy raised his hands up again. “I’m not threatening him. He already knows the truth,” he said, flickering his gaze to Peter. “You can keep running, kid, but eventually you’ll be caught. Is that what you want? Running like a fugitive from the law? Dragging your aunt along?”

No, Peter didn’t want that. But, he couldn’t go back either. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“Not according to the law,” Happy said, although with less venom than before. It almost sounded like sympathy. “I get that you’re confused and scared, but running won’t make the problems go away. You’re a good kid, Peter. Smart too. You know this won’t end well. They won’t stop looking and you won’t stop running. Is that how you want it to be for the rest of your life?

“Come back to the Tower,” Happy insisted. “You can talk to Tony. You guys can work something out. Okay? If you come with me now, you won’t get in trouble. Yeah?”

Peter thought. He was in a tough situation. Happy was right in that he and Aunt May would always be on the run. From either the United Nations or maybe even Mr. Stark. In either case, running was all they had. They had no resources. No money. No shelter. Not even another pair of clothes to change out. They were helplessly at a disadvantaged against Mr. Stark, with his small army and technology.

If Peter beat Happy, got passed him and managed to reach Aunt May’s colleague’s house, there was no way they could survive for long on what they have. Even if they got money, a car or anything else to help, it would be useless against the conglomerate of Mr. Stark’s resources. And if they weren’t afraid to send Powers and Jack-O after him—after his family—then they would send someone much worse. Like someone from Shadow Company. Maybe Bullseye? Deadpool even. Anyone who wouldn’t hesitate to kill him and his aunt. Because Peter was certain they wouldn’t try to capture him alive after tonight.

Dread rotted his insides upon knowing there was really no choice. If Peter wanted to keep Aunt May safe, then he only had one choice to accept.

May, on the other hand, hadn’t yet come to that realization. “Talk to Stark? Like he gives a damn about us,” she spat. “He didn’t seem to care that I thought my kid was dead.”

“That wasn’t him—” Happy tried to defend, but May wasn’t hearing him.

“If you actually believe that we would trust that asshole, then your head is too far up his ass,” May scorned, which her foul language promptly sent Happy reeling. “Stark isn’t going near my kid. Never again. Over my dead body. You can tell him that after we beat the crap out of you.”

Happy was dumbfounded, or maybe even terrified of his aunt. He kind of leaned away from her, eyes squinting at her as if to decide if she truly was a ferocious opponent that he needed to worry about.

Meanwhile, Peter stood beside his aunt. He looked at her bruised face, the blood splatter and the cracked glasses and knew it was the right thing to do. Peter would do whatever he had to do to protect May. After Ben’s death, he promised he would forever keep her safe. And, he could not back out of that promise. He loved her too much to let her suffer more.

“May?”

She wasn’t listening. Too busy arguing for him. Defending him from Happy.

He had to speak louder. “May!”

May stopped talking and looked down. Her angry eyes softened on him, rounding with worry and concern.

His next words were going to hurt. “He’s right.”

“What are you talking about?” May questioned.

“Happy—he’s right. We can’t keep this up. I can’t… I can’t put you in danger.”

“I can take care of myself just fine.”

But all Peter saw was Powers grabbing his aunt’s head before he slammed it into the wall. He watched her body fall and saw the ugly bruising that covered half her face. Not only that, but Powers wasn’t the most dangerous person out there. Peter resided in a Compound full of super-powered individuals. Some of them a lot worse than Powers.

His eyes hurt as he shook his head. “I can’t risk it. I can’t let you get hurt because of me,” he said, his hand raising up. “I’m sorry.”

“Peter, what are you—”

Peter hated himself. He really did.

He fired a gob of web at his aunt’s hand. The velocity speed of his web smacking into his aunt’s hand, threw her off balance. She scuttled backwards, falling against the building side as the web made contact. It trapped her hand and; therefore, trapped her as well.

May yanked and tugged at the webbing to release her. It didn’t budge. Peter’s creation was meant to last and be almost unbreakable until it dissolved. She was secured, unable to interfere.

Peter swallowed, eyes brimming in remorse. “I’m sorry.”

May whirled back to him. “Peter! Peter—no!” she shouted, stretching her free hand to him. “Get me out of this right now. Don’t—don’t go with that man!”

“I have to,” Peter’s voice tore, sounding brittle as he whispered. “I’m sorry, Aunt May, but I gotta protect you.”

He backed away, slowly stepping from his aunt and toward Happy. His back was to the man, eyes lingering on his aunt one last time.

He paused, gasping for breath. “I love you.”

“Peter! Peter… no,” May jerked at her trapped hand again, the other stretching out as far as she could humanly go, fingers wide spread in a desperate attempt to grab him.

Peter felt a breath of air against his skin.

“Peter! Don’t!” May desperately protested. “Peter...  _Peter_!”

Peter turned, his back now facing his aunt and his eyes forward on Happy. The man looked stunned. His eyes kept shifting from his aunt to him as Peter came to his surrender. He was shaking, his throat tight and eyes clogged with grief.

But, he didn’t cry. He sniveled and kept wiping his nose with his sleeve, but he didn’t cry as he listened to his aunt call out to him, begging him to not leave her.

Happy clasped a hand on his shoulder, leading Peter out of the alleyway. “You did the right thing, kid,” he said to him. “I know that was hard for you, but you did the right thing.”

Did he? He heard his aunt's pleas for him to come back, fear walloping against his whole body. Everything felt cold. His skin. His lips. His own mind and heart. He didn’t even remember walking to the car or being seated inside the car. He sank into the cushion, ears ringing loud with his aunt’s pleas and cries echoing through his whole body.

He squished his eyes closed, doing his best to tune it out, but all he heard was her. She was crying. Sobbing. He could hear it through her heaving breaths between her tears and shouts for him.

Peter scrunched almost into a ball, wishing the ache craving into his heart would go away. Or stab him to death. Either was acceptable.

Happy was on the phone. He confirmed something and then hung up before he revved the engine alive. The doors locked. Peter was trapped. Jailed inside the car and transported away.

Peter shut his eyes. “Drive, Happy,” he begged, unable to bear the sounds of his aunt calling him back. “Please, drive.”

Happy turned the gears and the car moved along down the street. As they drove, Peter listened to his aunt’s cries fade away into the back of his head. Until it all went silence and the city life took over, covering up her existence.

And it shattered Peter.

* * *

The drive was quiet. Not that Peter wanted to talk. His mind was loud enough for more noises to combat him. May's screams, pleas and her cries to get him to come back sent chills straight to his heart. He could still feel the air between them when May reached her hand out, trying to stop him from going with Happy, from leaving her. 

His head hurt. As did his chest. His whole body convulsed in a horrific scream, but no sound came out. It was trapped. All the pain was trapped within him. 

“You okay there?”

Peter flickered his eyes to the front of the car, where Happy glanced at him from the mirror. Happy looked at him, pity embedded in those normally blasé gaze. "You did the right thing, kid," he said. "Tony is going to see that."

Tony. Mr. Stark. That's where Peter was heading. Back to the Tower. 

Happy kept talking. "You won't get in any big trouble for this, okay? You came back. Willingly too. I told Tony that," he rambled on. "You'll be okay."

Peter finally parted his lips. "I'm worried about my aunt."

“You aunt? She'll be fine.”

The image of May stuck to the building, her hand outstretched, reaching for him. "She's—"

“She's going to be fine, Peter," Happy reiterated. "No harm will come to her. I promise.”

Happy rarely promised him anything nor did he ever care to help him out unless Mr. Stark told him to. So, it gave Peter minor comfort to know Happy cared. Just enough to subside some of the ache wreaking havoc on his heart.

They entered Manhattan. Peter looked at the skyline with a grim recognition. Happy slowed with traffic, coming up to a stoplight. Happy rummaged through his jacket before he pulled out a small packet of tissues. He handed them back to Peter. "Your head is bleeding," he pointed to the area where Peter's head throbbed. 

Peter accepted the tissues and pressed a bundle to his wound, plugging up the blood. “Hey, Happy?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you find me?” he asked, wondering how the man found him so quickly in that alleyway.

Happy’s eyebrows lifted in mild surprise. “Oh, well, your tracker,” he answered. “It told me where to find you.”

Peter jerked up, remembering that he had a tracker inside him. Somewhere in his body was a tracking device implanted into him after he jumped the fence. He’d forgotten all about it. It was never used against him, so it became a distant memory until it almost vanished completely from his mind. That was, until tonight and Peter felt his skin crawling at the violation.

The light changed and Happy continued driving, and the silence returned. When they arrived at the Tower, the bleeding had stopped. But, the blood crusted along his wound and it was still smeared down his dirtied cheeks. He didn't look like the presentable person he was when he arrived at the Tower the first time.

Happy drove down to the indoor garage. No need to draw attention, Peter assumed. Parked, Peter stiffly got out of the car, throwing his bloody tissues into a nearby bin and followed Happy's directions. They rode the elevator up and got off at an unknown floor. It wasn't the penthouse. It wasn't any of Stark Industries offices. It was somewhere new. 

Happy grabbed the doors and ushered Peter inside the room. There, waiting in the center, was Tony Stark. 

Mr. Stark had on his gala attire on, but it was loose. His jacket was off, hung over one of the sofa chairs, and his bow tie gone. Eyebrows pinched in a downward slant, Mr. Stark's cold glare zeroed on him. Arms were crossed and mouth in a thin line, Mr. Stark waited for Peter and Happy to approach. Almost like he was the judge and Peter, the criminal, with his flimsy lawyer trying to lead him up to the stand. 

Peter realized they weren't the only ones in the room. Simon was there and another, an individual Peter never met. They were both dressed in the same, dark bland attire. Simon gave him a hard glare as Peter walked, but the man said nothing. Simon's face unflinchingly like stone. Blank and emotionless.

Peter looked away from Simon as he walked up to Mr. Stark. They both stared at each other. Peter with wide eyes and impassive expression and Mr. Stark with a cutting glare that warranted everyone to be on their toes. 

Peter stopped. He waited. A tiny spark fluttering within him, hoping that all of it was a misunderstanding. An accident. Something to be easily forgiven and fixed. But deep down, Peter knew he needed to detach himself from that withering hope.

He checked the room again. He hoped Pepper was in the room. Someone comforting and compassionate. Someone who would be able to relate his need for his aunt. But she wasn't in the room with them. Just him, Mr. Stark, Happy , Simon and Simon's colleague. 

Mr. Stark stared him down, the corners of his mouth dangerously twitching. The man inhaled, deep, through his nostrils before he spoke. "Enjoy your night out?” he asked, flippant as always. “Heard you went to a killer house party.”

Peter let a stream of frustrated breath at the man’s poor joke. Seeing Mr. Stark, standing nonchalantly in front of him, made Peter brim with irritation. He wanted to wipe to almost throttle the man, but he kept his hands at his sides.

Iron Man’s glare lingered a little longer, but not only that, there was a faint disappointment ingrained into the man’s expression. Almost like it was Peter who caused all this drama and not Mr. Stark. That this whole mess was Peter’s fault.

“Hap here told me that you didn’t put up any resistance,” Mr. Stark continued on. “Although, my other sources tell me a different story. Two operatives—one severely injured and the other dead. Congrats by the way on that. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Peter’s eyes went wide and his mouth dropped. “You sent them?”

“You ran off!” Mr. Stark huffed in reminder. “I did what I would have done with any rogue.”

“So you sent Powers after me?” Peter fumed, his heart burning up quickly. “After everything that man did to me and you sent him! To kill me!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Stark dismissively waved. “They had orders to not kill you.”

“But torture was fine? Attacking and beating me and my aunt was perfectly reasonable.”

“You betrayed me!” spat Mr. Stark, a new verge of angry boiling behind those dark eyes. “You ran off at first opportunity.” Mr. Stark dropped and shook his head, wiping a hand down his face. “I told you to stay put. All you had to do was stay inside the Tower. That was all you had to do, Peter. Just stay put for a few hours until I got back.”

“Like a dog?” Peter pouted, sullen at the demeaning message.

Mr. Stark obnoxiously rolled his eyes. “No—like a good boy,” he quipped in return. “What? You think I enjoyed the idea of sending those guys after you? Sending anyone after you? News flash, kid, I didn’t. But you didn’t give me a whole lot of choices. I picked the quickest way to fix this blundering mess you made. And sure, it didn’t go down as I would have liked, but then again, I didn’t have this scheduled in my calendar.”

“And like I did?” Peter countered. “I didn’t have plans to run off. Hell—I didn’t even have plans to stay in Queens! I just wanted to see my aunt. Make sure she was okay. Then I discover all of your lies and that you sent Powers and Jack-O to kill me!”

“Capture you,” Mr. Stark sternly corrected, but that didn’t matter to Peter. Because that’s not what happened.

Happy stepped in, trying to make breathing room for the both of them. “Okay… why don’t we take a breather here,” he said. “It’s nothing that can’t be fixed, right? Peter came back. On his own, so we can start moving forward from here and—”

“I didn’t come back to make penance,” Peter spoke up, finding Happy’s attempt of intervention ridiculous and utterly pointless. He looked back to Mr. Stark. “I only came back to drop off the knife you left in my back. Figured you’ll need it for another backstabbing.”

Peter was smug, while Mr. Stark looked sour at the remark.

"You little  _shit_ ," Mr. Stark reproached, eyes ablaze, forgetting Happy entirely. "I gave you everything! I protected you! Let you into my home and took you under my wing, and  _this_ is how you repay me? Throwing everything back at my face and running off?"

Mr. Stark was towering him and his face dark red. Peter's feet rooted to the floor, heart pounding. This was worse than the incident in the workshop. Mr. Stark’s anger boiled and brewed under the steaming temptation to blow. His hands were clenched as he stared down at Peter with fire in his eyes.

"I kept you from being sent to the hole," Mr. Stark seethed in argument. "Everyone else knew you would be a handful, but I thought you were worth the effort. I believed in you when no one else did.

“I trusted you, Pete,” Mr. Stark’s voice went deathly quiet. “I trusted and believed in you. I did everything in my power to make you safe and comfortable because I _cared_ about you.”

Peter rolled his eyes and muttered three words underneath his breath.

Mr. Stark started. “Excuse me?”

"I said... you don't care," Peter repeated, chin up and eyes defiant on Mr. Stark. "All you care about is being right. That the great Tony Stark can do no wrong. You don’t care about me. You only care about being right in this fight with Captain America.”

“You ungrateful—”

“What? Did I hit your ego too hard?” Peter challenged, getting riled up the more he spoke as the puzzle pieces all started to click together. “That’s what this is all about. I remember from our first meeting. You needed soldiers for an army.

“You looked at me and saw an asset. Someone young enough to be enthralled by your… your… stardom! Fame! Whatever all this is!” Peter madly gestured at Mr. Stark’s messy, but still glamorous appearance. “You manipulated me into becoming your hidden ace against Captain America. All the training and encouragement to get stronger and better… that was just in preparation to fight against him, wasn’t it?”

Mr. Stark rapidly shook his head. “You’re twisting my words—”

“Like you twisted everything to me?” Peter shot back. “Telling me that you were working hard on getting the Accords amended so I could go back to my aunt? Telling me that my aunt was fine when she clearly wasn’t? Telling me I was special and I was going to a great hero one day? What other lies did you tell me, Mr. Stark?

“Better yet—let me ask you this question: were you ever planning to let me go home?” Peter accusingly inquired. "Were you really working on finding a way around the Accords or was all that bullshit?”

Mr. Stark sealed lips answered his question. The man never had any intentions of setting Peter free. Peter was meant to be his prisoner for the rest of his life. 

Peter's heart hung itself as the dark realization took hold. People said the truth hurt and it certainly did. Far more than Peter thought it ever could. That tinniest spark of hope fluttered and died, nothing but faint wisps of smoke. 

Peter quietly scolded himself for every trusting the man. To ever believing in him and to even think the man cared for him in a way Peter was beginning to care for him.

“Okay, well then... that's it. I'm done," Peter announced, sounding hoarse as he spoke. "I'm done with... with all of this." He gestured to everything. To Mr. Stark, to Happy, to the whole freakin' Tower! He was just done. ”I don’t want to be any part of this.”

Mr. Stark shook his head. “You’re not done with anything.”

“Yes I am!” Peter argued, furious at Mr. Stark’s light dismissal. “You don’t own me! You don’t have any say in what I do… you’re not my dad!”

Mr. Stark’s face burned, his eyes like brimstone as straightened up, imposing over Peter’s stature. “And what exactly are you planning to do, Peter?” he cockily asked, miffed at the boy’s resistance. “Go back to Queens? Go back to being Spider-man? Because that won’t happen. Not under the Accords. You can’t just quit and go back to your old life. That’s long gone!”

Most definitely, Peter thought as he remembered his shambled apartment with Aunt May. All in fire and smoke and in ruins. “Well, I’m not staying here,” he said. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you!”

“Too bad, kiddo. Without me, you would be in the hole!”

“Then I would rather be there!” Peter shouted back, unafraid. He really wasn’t. After everything that happened tonight, Peter never felt braver than before. “I would rather be in the hole than spend another minute with you!”

“That's what you want? Fine!" Mr. Stark whirled around, and snapped at someone behind Peter. "Send him to the hole.”

Peter knew he should have been afraid when two pairs of hands grabbed his shoulders and arms. He knew he should have felt a little bit of terror when Happy's face paled. And again when Happy tried to intervene. 

“Tony—”

Mr. Stark wouldn't hear of it. Peter didn't care. He would rather go to the hole than stay with Mr. Stark any longer. He let the men jostle him around, escorting him back to the doors he came from, determined to not even look back, to not even throw a fit. He was going to walk willingly. Let Mr. Stark be aware that Iron Man no longer had control over him. Peter kept his head held high to show he was assertive in his decision. 

“Happy?" Peter heard Mr. Stark address his security/chauffeur. "Find the aunt. Bring her here.”

Fear engulfed Peter in one swoop. "No!"

He whirled back around, right back to Mr. Stark. Rage build up and Peter lunged at the man, only to be somewhat subdue by the Simon and the other guard. "You leave her alone! You... don't you fucking touch her! Don't—" he lashed out, trying to shove the men off him. " _Get off me_!"

Mr. Stark hardly even looked in his direction. Almost like it was a normal occurrence to have a teenager be dragged off, screaming and fighting. The man didn't care. Then again, he never did and Peter was never going to change the Mr. Stark's mind. 

Simon and his colleague struggled, grunting as they restrained Peter with their combined strength. Yet, it wasn't enough. Peter kept moving forward. Inch by inch, Peter persevered onward, unaware the shock rippling along Simon's face.

"Hold him!" Simon snapped at the other guard.

The other guard gritted. " _I'm_   _trying_!" he snapped. “He’s freakishly strong!”

Peter wrestled and kicked, wanting nothing more than to stop Mr. Stark. Stop him from going after his aunt. Stop him from hurting her. Stop him from taking the last of his family away. "Leave her alone! She's done nothing to you!”

Mr. Stark peek over his shoulder a bit, remained unbothered. He simply turned away. Wasn’t even listening or watching anymore. His back was turned, hands in his pockets as he considered something else to occupy him mind rather than the boy wrestling with the guards in an attempt to attack him.

Peter turned to Happy, still frozen in place and troubled by the turn of events. He was Peter’s last hope. "Happy!" he beseeched, to which the man jerked his head to Peter. "You promised! Y-You promised she wouldn't—"

His spidey-sense whirled in warning right as a pinprick hit right in his neck. Pressure followed. A cool wave came over him before things became sluggish—his body, mind and words. Everything slowed. 

The tracking device. It must have drugged him.

“Hap...py... pleaseeeee," Peter's begging words slurred. "Hhhaap...”

The guards’ resistance eased up. Or maybe he was just giving up. He wasn’t quite sure.

Peter lifted his heavy eyes up, but he only saw a smear of fuzzy colored outlines. He let out his last, final plea. "Y-you... promised..."

There was nothing after that. The show ended. Peter did his final bow. There was no applause. The curtain closed.


	21. In the Hole

The Hole was not a prison. That was another lie told by Mr. Stark.

When Mr. Stark talked about the Hole to him that day in his bedroom, Peter pictured something akin to Rikers or Alcatraz. Small cells, bars, bunkbeds and an unsanitary toilet that smelled foul. Typical prison.

He didn’t imagine this. Not this at all.

The Hole was  _hell_.

Peter woke and found himself strapped onto a stretcher. He wasn’t laying down, but upright, facing a blank wall. His arms were bound in a straitjacket, tight enough to keep him immobile. And he wore a collar around his neck. It didn’t do anything to him (not yet, anyway), but it was a heavy reminder.

None of that was the worst part. What truly made it hell was the detention itself. There was something horribly wrong about it. His legs, chest, arms and—his whole body felt  _inverted_. It wasn’t painful, but it was distressing. Enough to make him squirm in discomfort.

The room holding him leeched of color, of sound, of smell, of touch… it was like he faded into a hollow corpse, enclosed in an indefinite tomb. His only view was a blank wall, it appeared to him like mirrors in a funhouse, distorting the distance at every angle he looked. It was weird and dizzy. Every fluttered of his eyes disoriented him, sending his head swimming and eyes spinning. The room was like an inhuman monster. Twisted and fearful and wrong! So wrong and it suffocated him.

The air was thick and dark. Every breath was like having cold fingers shoved down his throat and grasped onto his soul to yank it out. That fear expanded and Peter closed his mouth, refusing to take any breaths to avoid his soul being taken.

His head pounded and his cells disintegrated from the lack of oxygen. But he couldn’t breathe! He would lose his soul if he let his mouth open wide enough for the monster to grab it. The monster lurked in the shadows, circling him and laughing at him. It waited to pounce. Waited to snare the soul Peter struggle to keep within him.

Red and black splotches danced in front of him. A crawling dread stroke his spine, leaving a cold touch on each vertebrae. Anxiety crept along the borders of his senses, into the miasma of hopelessness. It filled him with phantasms of overwrought nerves and imageries of madness. Truth and falsehoods kept him questioning and doubting.

It wound him up and left him sputtering incoherent mumbles. He whined for comfort. Greedy for his need to be in his aunt’s arms. He worried for her. His thoughts burned of Aunt May. Trapped to a wall, waiting to be picked off by Mr. Stark’s men. His army. And he wasn’t there to protect her. Like he wasn’t there to protect Uncle Ben.

He wanted out. He wanted  _out!_  His aunt needed him. She was in danger. Possibly even hurt. He glued her to the wall. Left her vulnerable. All in the name of her safety. And Peter… he couldn’t do anything.

He was trapped in this tabernacle of emptiness.

Peter’s head fell back. All illusions of surviving were gone.

He wished to be saved. He wanted a rescuing hand to tow him out and back to life.

_Mr. Parker._

A voice! It drained right into his ear and swamped his brain. Its words reverberated around him, arousing him to pay attention.

Peter shut his eyes (or opened? He wasn’t quite sure.). He heard nothing. It was only false whispers that floated around him. The monster waiting for him to respond. To open himself so that he could claw out his soul.

_Mr. Parker?_

The voice returned. Clearer. Less God-like.

Peter shook his head. It felt forever. Like his head was moving through syrup. Sticking and thick. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t true. It was a ploy. There was no one there. Only space. Emptiness. Darkness.

“Mr. Parker?”

The voice shocked Peter awake. The grey void was gone, replaced with state-of-the-art machinery and computer systems. Further beyond was a metallic circle with lights dancing along its metal edge. Inside the ring, it appeared to be some kind liquid silk, with starlight patterns that rippled among the waves. Above that was a display reading: GATEWAY / NONACTIVE.

What did that mean?

“Mr. Parker? Can you hear me?”

Peter snapped his attention away from the mystery gateway and straight forward to see a man dressed in a lab coat looking at him. Peter freaked and jerked in response, but was restrained with all the bindings needed to keep a hold on him.

“Oh! Oh… no, no, you’re okay, Mr. Parker,” the man tried to reassure him. “Hey—hey, it’s okay…”

The man’s hand reached to hold his shoulders. The gesture made Peter cringe, rejecting and recoiling away from the man. Or attempted to move away. His heart raced for dear life as he stared up at the man with wide, terrified eyes. Oh god! Was he about to be experimented?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the scientist swore. “I only want to do a quick check-up...”

The scientist reached for him again and Peter involuntarily flinched again, recoiling as much as he could from the man’s grasp.

The man dropped his hand. “Okay... you don’t want to be touched. That’s fine,” he said, pulling up a stool to sit on. “I can work around that. So, um, Mr. Parker—or is it okay to call you Peter?”

Peter stared blankly at the man. No words or emotions or even thoughts came to him. Too distracted by the blinding of the lights. The darkening shadows in the corners. The heat of the nearby lamp. The smell of a ham sandwich to mayo and onions and arugula. The whines of overworked machines, blaring loud in his ears. There was no respite. It flooded him, the masses blinding, deafening and burning him in one go.

The man spoke to him again. At least, Peter thought he did. He barely registered the voice. It fluctuated with the turbulent wind and the scattered thoughts. It overwhelmed him. Pulsed through his whole body, wrangled him in a knotted mess. 

And the air. Too loud! Too tight! Too hard to take a breath and too hard to speak.  _Release! Release! Release, damnit!_

The man's took his shoulders, saying something. His image burned bright, then darkened. Then burned again. Peter couldn't understand and he felt incredibly pathetic. He was reduced to pitiable straits, unable to trust his senses or his mind. The two things he relied most for his own sanity. 

Something covered his face. Or maybe he gave up. He fell back into oblivion, curling onto himself in hopes to protect the last that remained of himself. As it took him, Peter let his festering heart cry.

* * *

His reawakening was groggy. Eyelids heavy and breaths deep as he slowly came around. The bleariness and shadows ebbed into disappearance the more times he blinked, regaining his strength. His focus was on a ceiling too high for him to reach and his hears listened to the soft purrs of machines waiting for commands. 

With effort, Peter rolled his head to the side. He was laying on a mat. Right on the floor. A shock blanket on top of him. Peter instinctively lifted his hands to shrug it off, only to remember he had no control of his limbs. But, to his grand surprise and happiness, his hand moved, fingers gripping the blanket. 

The bindings were gone. Except for the heavy collar around his neck. The straitjacket was detached from him and he was only in these grey clothes. A number stamped on the sleeve: No. 081962.

No. 081962. That was him. His identity. His life. 

“Oh, good," came that familiar voice. "You're awake.”

A chair wheeled and steps took over before someone stood over Peter. Their long shadow hanging over Peter's head.

“Let me help you up.”

A hand was stretched to him, encouraging to be taken. Not fully aware what or where he was, Peter took the hand and was lifted to his feet. The other hand rested behind Peter's back as Peter was shuffled to a nearby office chair. The man helped Peter sit before the hands retracted from him. 

The scientist left Peter in the chair, going back to his workstation that had two monitors, both displaying unusual activity. Not unusual to the scientist as he barely glanced at it before he turned around, dragging his stool over to place it in front of Peter.

“How're you feeling?" the scientist asked. "You were in quite a panic an hour ago.”

He still felt panicked and nauseous. And sluggish. "I'm... okay."

“Well, you’re certainly not a blubbering mess like before.”

Peter prickled at the comment. It irked him that he couldn't remember. There was an empty, blank space in his mind, which questioned and haunted him. What happened? 

He must have shown his frustration because the scientist filled in the missing gaps. "You got a nasty case of sensory overload," he explained. "Can happen sometimes when one leaves the Negative Zone, but I'm afraid you got it the worst. Not surprising considering your already heightened senses. You were in there for a little less than twelve hours, but it was enough to make you ill.”

Huh? “Negative Zone?” Peter’s croakily inquired.

“The Hole or whatever people are calling it," the scientist waved in dismissal as unimportant. "I prefer Negative Zone, but that's only my preference.”

Peter's whole body went rigid. He clutched the chair's armrests, looking wildly at the ground in search. Where was it? Was he already in it? What—How—

“Relax, Mr. Parker," the scientist said, his voice pleasant and soothing. It reminded Peter of a gentleman. Someone with a posh upbringing and emotions always in check. "You're not in it. I had you removed to do a quick check-up, if you may recall.”

Again, Peter didn't. Beads of sweat bubbled along his hairline and he heard his heart drum in his ears. "W-Where am I then?" he asked, voice still shaking. "What's going on? W-Who are you?"

The man’s eyebrows twitched up in disbelief. “Do you not know who I am?"

Peter had no idea who the man was. Not at first. He took in the man’s full appearance: dark hair with some side-streaks of white; chiseled, sharp face; intelligent, curious eyes; and, a small mouth that always seemed to be in a permanent studious pout.

Then it clicked. Peter's mind jump-started and all the pieces came together. He knew exactly who the man was.

“You're... you're...  _Dr. Richards_!"

The man smiled, a twinkle in his eye. "Yes, I'm Reed Richards," the scientist confirmed. "Please to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Parker.”

He held out a hand and Peter, awe-inspired, shook one of his heroes’ hands. Peter admired Dr. Richards’ thesis on synthetic poylmers, giving a summary report to his sixth grade class. The man was the smartest person on Earth! Mr. Stark was brilliantly smart and a mechanic whiz, but Dr. Richards was  _the_  man of science. A legend. Practically mythical.

And he shook his hand! His hand! God—this was incredibly unbelievable.

Dr. Richards light-heartily chuckled at Peter's star-struck face. "I was told you were a fan," he said to Peter. "Recited whole passages from my theses. That's impressive, considering most adults have a hard time getting through the first paragraph of any of my writings." He studied Peter with that same intellectual twinkle in his eye. “You must be quite special.”

He wasn’t, Peter wanted to say. He wasn’t special. Only a fool.

Dr. Richards prepped a blood pressure cuff. "Mr. Stark speaks highly of you," he continued, wrapping the cuff over Peter’s triceps. "Says you're one of a kind, and he may have a point.”

“I’m not,” Peter exhaled, tired of the high expectations. “Mr. Stark—”

The name shocked something alive within him, reopening a wound. A pressure buried into the middle of his forehead, like someone pressed a button. His mind stayed cleared before an onslaught of memories engulfed his thoughts. Photograph-like flashes flipped before his eyes. Snapshots of his aunt. Of their burning apartment. Of Powers and Jack-O attacking. Of Mr. Stark. Or Mr. Stark’s fury. Of lies. Of orders. Of screaming and begging.

Peter’s breath hitched and his overwrought nerves fired up again, surging him right out of his seat.

Dr. Richards, however, jumped up as well, grabbing Peter on both sides and restraining his movements. "Whoa! Easy there, son! You’re still recovering from your extraction."

"Let me go!" Peter snapped, trying to get passed Dr. Richards. To reach for the stairs and the doors and to his endangered aunt. “Get out of my way!”

But, Dr. Richards refused. "Settle down before you hurt yourself."

Peter didn't give a damn about his own safety! He needed to find his aunt. She was the one in danger. Mr. Stark threatened her. He was going after her. He was going to hurt her.

"Where is she? What did you do to her?" he demanded of the scientist. "If she's hurt, I swear to God—"

“I don't know who you are talking about.”

“My aunt!” Peter roared, rage seeping into his words. “What did Mr. Stark do to her?” He scanned the room madly, searching every nook and cranny for a woman with radiant red hair. “ _Where is she!?”_

Dr. Richards face remained blank and impassive. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he confessed. “I don’t know anything about an aunt.”

“ _You’re lying!_ ”

They all told lies. Peter’s strength may not be up to par, but he was stronger enough to shake out of a human's grasp. He started to yank himself away, jerking away to force the man to let him go.

At that, his chest constricted. Not too hard that it was agonizing, but enough to garner notice. Furious at the restriction, Peter looked down and gave out a tiny squeak of surprise. The man's hands were no longer on Peter's arms. They stretched, over the arms, around his back, over his belly, and back into a curling compression to stop Peter's flailing movements.

Peter's eyes bulged as he gaped at the impossible. "H-H-How..."

“I’ll tell you if you promise to be civil,” Dr. Richards said, tilting his head down to make that pivotal eye contact. “Do you promise?”

Too much in a state of shock to argue, Peter begrudgingly nodded. Otherwise, he probably would remain a struggling fool in a python-like grip for a long time.

Slowly, Dr. Richards unwrapped his long arms from Peter's middle, but rather than the arms dangling all the way to the floor, it shrunk down, returning to normal. Peter stood where he was, feet rooted as his eyes flickered from Dr. Richards’ hands to the man's face.

"Thank you," Dr. Richards said. “Please sit. You're still not up to your full health."

Peter didn't make move to the chair, but Dr. Richards stretched again, sliding the chair up until it hit behind Peter's knees and forced him to sit.

Dr. Richards fixed his white coat. "Now—I’m sure a science whiz like yourself has heard of the rumors in regards to an  _incident_  many years ago.”

Peter recalled the rumblings about an incident at the famed Baxter Building. Reporters mentioned it for a couple of weeks before moving onto other worldly problems. They wrote stories of an incident that resulted in an experiment disaster. Something almost akin to the Hulk, but not that serious. Whispers among the scientific community claimed Dr. Richards’ group were inhuman. Became something warped and odd. Rumors of a man that stretched every limb of his body. Of a man that transformed into a literal, flaming torch. Of a girl who shielded not only others, but herself with invisibility. And of a mountain, who was once a carefree man.

Obviously, Peter dismissed them. He and Ned treated them like ghost stories. Tales to tell kiddies to freak them out. While lab accidents do happen, Peter never read in the news of a stretchable man or an invisible girl or fire boy or a… thing. There were no stories of such creatures and Dr. Richards’ made several appearances in the public, alongside his beautiful wife Susan. No signs of mutations at all.

Until now when Dr. Richards’ hands became elastic, coiling around his body multiple times.

Peter rolled his eyes back up to Dr. Richards’ face. “It’s true then,” he murmured. “You can really… you know…  _stretch_.”

Dr. Richards nodded. He took up his seat again, scooting it close enough that their knees almost touched. “It happened when a project of mine went sideways. It became unstable and before we were able to shut it down, a blast went off in the room,” he said. “Myself and three of my friends, including my wife, were caught in the blast. Thankfully, none of us died, but we did come out… different.”

“We quarantined ourselves. For the safety of others as we had no idea of what we were exposed to,” Dr. Richards went on, stress lines forming across his forehead. “It was all for the best until we figured things out. Then the Accords happened—”

“And now you work for Mr. Stark,” Peter finished, distrustful of the man.

“ _Alongside_ Anthony Stark. He’s not my boss,” Dr. Richards corrected like he wanted Peter to acknowledge he was still his own man. “After the Accords, he came to our headquarters with a plan. He—it’s amazing, Peter. The plans! Had so many discussions right here in this room about the future. The future for not only this country, but the world and other meta-humans... it’s inspiring!”

Peter didn’t say a word. His brain shuttered for a moment, almost everything on pause while Peter caught up with everything Dr. Richards was saying to him. Plans? What plans? What future?

“W-What are you talking about?” Peter questioned. “Isn’t the government in control of all this? The UN?”

“They’re backing us, but Tony is leading the whole thing.”

The world screeched to a halt. “ _What_?”

Dr. Richards looked puzzled at Peter’s bewildered state. “The Superhero community needs a face, Peter. A leader,” he said. “Tony is the person in charge of the implementing the Accords. Surely you knew that!”

No, no he didn’t. Add that to Mr. Stark’s lies. Right now, that didn’t matter. He needed to get Dr. Richards to listen to him, to believe him.

“Dr. Richards—please! You gotta listen to me,” Peter urgently requested of the great scientist. “Mr. Stark is wrong! Okay? What he is doing is _all wrong_!”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You do realize I’m not an adult, right? He kidnapped me! He’s holding me against my will!”

Dr. Richards averted his gaze, turning away from Peter to fiddle with something on a nearby desk. “I’m aware of your status,” was all he said.

“Then you know this is all wrong! It’s morally wrong!” Peter demanded. “He’s going after my aunt! He threatened her—”

“I thought you were an orphan.”

“I have an aunt!” Peter was tired of people dismissing his aunt as non-family. She was his family. Now and forever. “How can you support him? Mr. Stark’s breaking so many laws! Don’t you even—”

Dr. Richards swung back to him. “You don’t understand, Peter. You’re still… young! Innocent! You don’t know how the world truly works yet,” he said, frazzled, but his eyes were flashing with excitement. “What Tony is doing—it’s going to benefit the world! People are going to be safe. No one will fear people like you and me.”

“No one is afraid of me.”

Dr. Richards went to a computer, typed something up and clicked a button. A screen flickered to life. A big picture of a news article from the _Daily Bugle_. A new article that publicly decried Spider-man as a menace.

Peter curled his fingers. “That’s a tabloid! No one believes it!”

“You’re a man of science, Peter. We both use logic when faced with problems,” Dr. Richards said as he powered down the big screen. The newspaper article disappeared. “Unfortunately, most people do not. People are… ignorant. They take things at face value. It’s why our government is the way it is at the moment. That’s why we need better leaders to fix everything that’s going wrong. That’s why—”

“You sided with Mr. Stark?” scoffed Peter, his face sharpened in dangerous angles. “Because he told you things and you just believed him? Like that?”

“No, I thought it over. I did the math—”

“Not everything is math and science!”

Dr. Richards inhaled. His neck seemed to have gotten longer. “I know,” he said, softly as if he was in a confessional box. “We’re facing an apocalypse, Peter. If we don’t regulate… if we don’t take better control…” The man looked back to Peter, looked him right into his angry, hurt eyes. “… we lose.

“You’re right. It’s not about math or science. It’s not even politics!” Dr. Richards’ rambled on. “But it is _logical_ to know that if we do nothing, then disaster will fall upon us. Tony’s plan is the best way to prevent disaster.”

Peter dropped his chin, slowly shaking his head as his heart crumbled into little pieces. It was gut-wrenching to see another one of his idols fall in front of his very eyes. Another disappointment to shatter all the great illusions Peter had for his role models.

Unlike Dr. Richards’, Peter saw the true light. He was quickly enlightened and knew he needed to correct it. He unwound himself from the enthrallment Mr. Stark delicately wrapped around him over the past nine months. And he refused to let his other false hero do it again.

“You gotta let me go, Dr. Richards,” Peter reiterated. “My aunt’s in trouble. Mr. Stark is going to kill her.”

“Tony won’t kill your aunt.”

“You don’t know that!” Peter argued. “He already lied to my aunt about my disappearance. What do you think he would do next to keep her silent?”

“Peter, you don’t understand—“

“I understand a lot more than anyone gives me credit,” Peter sharply retorted. “I have to save my aunt. She needs me!”

“I’m sure your aunt is fine. Tony probably just… wanted to talk to her about the situation,” Dr. Richards claimed in a dismissing wave, “but if it makes you feel better, I’ll talk to Tony—”

“No! He’ll just lie to you!” Peter grew more frustrated by the man’s apathy. No wonder his aunt insisted on him joining in on social activities. She knew the importance of developing empathy for his science-minded brain. “You gotta let me go, okay? Let me go. Let me save my aunt and get out of here.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can!”

“Peter…Peter…Peter!” Dr. Richards shouted a little over Peter’s angry bursts. “I know all of this is confusing, but you are an important piece of the puzzle. You are pivotal! I know that now. You can’t walk away from it.”

Peter ground his teeth. “Watch me.”

He sprinted, weaving and dodging Dr. Richards’ elastic limbs that spiked in almost every direction. He scuttled along the walls as Dr. Richards’ arms zoomed up next to him in attempt to stop him. Peter heard the man’s pleas, but he ignored them. His eyes were on the door.

Peter never reached the door. He was close. He jumped from the wall, hand reaching for the handle when he felt the same coiling around his rib-cage. Yanked back, Peter watched his hand slip away from the door and back to where he started. His spidey-sense was booming again and his insides twisted as a buzzing sound cackled to life.

The portal. It was active.

Peter struggled madly in Dr. Richards’ elongated arms. “Please! Please!” he cried. “No! Don’t—don’t send me back there! I can’t… please! _Please_!”

Dr. Richards looked sympathetic, but his fingers stretched long as it reached to Peter’s neck. It clicked something and Peter’s muscles went slack. The collar. He turned it back on. Peter lost all of his super-strength and became limp in the man’s coiled grasp.

At his mercy, brought Peter was brought back to the upright stretcher. “It’ll be okay, Peter,” Dr. Richards said in soothing tone as if that would comfort Peter enough to believe him. “You won’t stay inside for long.”

Tears flew from Peter’s eyes. “No! No—you don’t understand! He’s going to kill her! He’s going to hurt her,” he wept. “Please, Dr. Richards, please… I have to save her! Protect her! She’s all I have left.”

Dr. Richards fastened Peter’s hands in the straitjacket. “Tony’s not a murderer.”

“He’s no saint either.”

A soft, but sad sigh fell from Dr. Richards’ lips. “In this day of age, no one is. We do what we must,” was all he chose to say before he secured Peter in his bindings. “I promise I’ll check on your aunt. Make sure she’s fine and well-cared for. And if Tony is truly threatening her (which I severely doubt), I will stand in front of her. I’ll protect her. You have my promise.”

With that, Dr. Richards turned away from Peter to return to his console. He stepped over the spaghetti-tangled of cords that lay on the floor. He flipped a few switches and sever boxes and routers alight and moaned awake. Then, the man took a seat in front of a hexagonal table with a large computer monitor in the center and, papers, laptops and tablets strewn across the surface.

The portal hummed to life. A silky ripple of stars and an unearthly nebula blazed in appearance. His stretcher moved on its own, sliding right in front of the active portal. And Peter’s senses screamed to life, begging and pounding in tantrum.

“No… no… no… no…”

“Big breath, Peter,” Dr. Richards advised right as he pressed a key at his console.

The stretcher jolted and Peter felt himself be swallowed whole by the inky black wave, consumed by the nebula and burned with the stars.

* * *

Breathe.

Just once.

Breathe.

Peter attempted to control his desperate lungs. Measured breaths. Calming exercises. It helped a little as his reality continued to be distorted. His vision was in constant shifts, flowing and changing. It threw him into chaos, the world spinning and nothing to stop it. It spun and spun and spun, spiraling Peter into a deep, desolate black hole of never-ending torment.

Shadows scurried the corners of his eyes, laughing and snickering at him. He would see someone, lurking right out of the light, blending in the dark. But every time Peter tried to focus, they disappeared. Nothing but the bare wall, before it grew into a maze of reflective walls like that funhouse he got lost in as a kid.

Another laughter. Right next to his ear.

Peter turned. No one was there. Nothing.

A light flashed in the next corner. He looked. Only darkness.

Only the monster that circled him, always out of sight, out of reach. But there. Watching. Waiting. Reminding Peter that any wrong move would result in ripping of his soul in half. His mind to go numb and crazy. To have his body as nothing but blood, skin and bones.

The monster’s ice-cold breath breezed against the back of Peter’s neck, sending a chill straight to his heart. Tts cold fingers traced his spine, causing Peter to lurch to run away. But he couldn’t. The binds restricted him, confined him, kept him trapped and begging in mercy.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut again. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.

“Please… please… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Peter cried, choking over his labored, sobbed breaths. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please—please, let me out. Please! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please Mr. Stark… please… I’m sorry.”

_What are you doing?_

Peter’s eyes popped open at the sound. A voice! He looked to the opposite side, and discovered a young child half-hidden from Peter’s eyes by the shadowy cloak of the wall.

“W-W-What?” Peter managed to gasp out before he sealed his lips again. The monster stayed behind him. Did the boy know that? Did he know this place was not safe?

The boy stared, unimpressed. _It won’t work._

The voice. It was in his head. How was the child speaking in his head? Was it telepathic? Was he kidnapped too?

“Y-You… got—got to get… out,” Peter coughed. “Get help.”

The boy didn’t move. _I’m right where I need to be_.

Peter shook his head. “No—find… find… help.”

He inadvertently blinked, his vision a swirl of dark colors until it refocused. The boy moved. He no longer remained hidden in partial shadows, but stood directly under Peter. Mop of messy brown curls, little dimple chin and inquisitive eyes right back at up. Eyes Peter saw every day of his life.

“Y-You?” Peter gasped. “Me?”

Little Peter said nothing. He only stared right up at Peter, nose scrunched in disappointment. _You’re no hero_.

Peter’s heart drummed, shooting strong pulses everywhere through him in an agonizing current. “I-I...”

_Heroes win. You don’t win_.

No, he supposed he didn’t. He lost so much in his life. And he only seemed to keep losing. First his parents. Then his uncle. His aunt. And now, his own mind.

Tears slid down Peter’s cheeks as he looked at his younger self. He wanted to call him a liar. That he was wrong, but what evidence did have to show? He was strapped, collared and drained of his powers. He left his aunt vulnerable. He trusted the wrong people. He failed.

The Parker Luck flowed strong in his veins. It had become his life force.

“Go…away,” Peter begged to Little Peter. He didn’t need his younger self to see him. To see what he had become. To watch him wilt and rot.

The boy didn't move. _It’s inevitable_.

Peter mumbled, the words dripping of his lips. "What is?"

Little Peter vanished. Gone. Like he was never there. Back to being alone with twisting architecture that loomed dangerously over him. Alone with only the small voice in the back of his head, telling him he was losing it. Alone with the monster that crept around him, hiding and teasing, ready to pounce and claw its way into Peter’s soul.

Peter squeezed into himself as best as he could. He wanted his aunt. He wanted his uncle. He even wanted the parents he had no memory of. He wanted his family more than anything. Return to being that little boy where he could run into his family’s arms with assurance, love and comfort. Soothing voices of pride and smiles.

All he got now was a cold shift of air, drafting over him. It whipped around him, swirling and surrounding as a ring of red-orange sparks floated in midair. Like a thin ring of fire, seen in the circuses he saw as a boy. Another hallucination. Another illusion. Another lie.

Peter blinked, his eyelids so heavy now. A shadow appeared in the middle, growing bigger and longer as it moved toward him. Its head tilted or… maybe it was Peter whose head lugged to the side? He slowly shook his head. Another hallucination. Another illusion. Another lie.

The figure formed into a shape. The shadows sliding off in a smooth cascading motion, like a cape. Splotches of color filtered into the grey and dreary room. Red whipped behind the figure, waving attention like a man drawing a bull's attention. Noise echoed around him and within him. Step. Step. Step.

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. Another hallucination. Another illusion. Another lie.

He held his breath and waited. The noise pierced his eardrums. Heat ripped into him. The cold sunk back. The world encased in ice burned. It hurt! It hurt! It hurt!

His younger self was right. It was all inevitable. Why did he bother to try? He wouldn’t win. Never did.

Peter let go, and falling forward, letting himself be eaten by the ring of fire and into the mercy of the apparition.


	22. The Secret Avengers

Peter noted his awareness returning when he heard broken voices above him. The words crackled over him, sounding like a static radio signal. He focused as hard as he could, but it only jumbled his brain to much, growing a massive headache in the center of his forehead. It tired him out and he sagged further into whatever enclosed around him. It was soft. Not hard like the stretcher he was forced onto. It appeared Dr. Richards may have followed up on one of his promises. 

Then again, Peter still couldn't see. His eyes were too heavy to lift. Without his sight, he relied on his other senses that were slowly thawing out and coming back to life. It was a painfully slow process. His mind awake, but his body dead, barely reacting to the stimuli around him. Even with effort, he hardly managed anything at all except maybe twitch a muscle in his fingers.

But now, he heard the voices clearing up inside his head. Words came through with meaning and understanding. Then the words grew and formed sentences. The muffles became more precise and distinct. He differentiated male and female voices, talking and discussing.

“...a few days...”

“...strange warned to not...”

“...I'm fine...don't...”

Peter grasped as much as he could. They spoke so fast that it was difficult to catch the messages between the hidden shadows. All the different voices crowded around him and Peter panicked at being surrounded, hearing and not seeing, feeling without control.

He tried to move again, make a fist or something, but something pressed against his forehead. He attempted to get the heavy object off his head, craning his neck and turning different directions, but it remained right on his head. And he got this horrible image pounding in his head, drilling up dread right into his heart. He wanted to know what was happening. Was Mr. Stark in the room? Was he the one speaking? Him and Dr. Richards?

Unable to bear it anymore, Peter gathered all the strength he mustered to speak. "...d-don't..."

That was as far as he could go. All his energy zapped and he fell back into a near vegetative state. The voices sounded hurried and muffled again, hard to distinguish the blended voices. 

But the thing on his head didn't move. It stayed. Not in a tight grip, but in a gentle, protective manner. Like a shield, keeping all harm away from him.

A cooing sound filtered through his ears, soothing his agitated nerves. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of dampness and a twang of pungency. He screwed his face into a sharp confliction, thinking where on earth did Mr. Stark send him? The man wouldn't be caught dead standing in a place that smelled like sewer water.

Whatever Mr. Stark had planned, Peter doubt his opinions would be taken into consideration. His strength was dismal, his body felt like lead from the top of his head down to the tip of his toes, anchored to whatever they dumped him. It would be futile to do any resistance, so Peter let the weight on his head remain, sliding back into obscurity for some peace.

* * *

Peter's consciousness returned by the sound of dripping water. He cracked his eyes open, struggling under the heavy weight of his eyelids as he came face-to-face with a stone-vaulted ceiling, colored in green dew. Condensation dripped down the walls. The air thick and reeked of old waste, causing Peter to crinkle his nose in disgust. He curiously stared at the moldy ceiling, trying to piece together where he was and what happened. 

He heard no voices. They were gone. Only dripping sounds of water made the outside world alive.

It didn't make sense to Peter. Was he underground? Why would Mr. Stark or Dr. Richards send him underground? Perhaps a new dungeon. A new prison. After all, Dr. Richards sounded somewhat concerned about his ill-reactions to the Negative Zone. Maybe this was the alternative?

Blinking to adjust, Peter strained his neck to move it. He wasn't held down anymore. Nor was any part of his body secured to the lumpy mattress he rested upon. He was free to move if he wanted, although that was somewhat of a challenge at the moment. His muscles felt weak and it took some time for Peter to move around the bed. His neck was sore. The back of his neck stung like the skin was being pulled apart. He winced, reaching back to feel swelling at the base of his neck. 

He panicked. His fingers nervously pressed against the tender skin, trying to find out what was wrong with him. Did they inject something into him? Did Mr. Stark implanted another chip? Did they cut him open? 

Footsteps approached the door to his new prison, and it opened. 

Peter sucked in a breath. "...May?"

His aunt dropped whatever was in her hand. “Oh my god… you’re awake!”

She rushed to him. Her red hair streaked through the dreary scenery and, before Peter could get off the mattress, she had him wrapped in her arms and smothered him. He breathed in the musky smell of her sweater, all the traces of her lavender scent gone. Her red hair curtained over their faces as she dropped a kiss on top of his head. 

"You’re okay. You’re okay," she breathed, her voice sounding brittle and breaking under certain syllables. "I have you.”

It sounded like she almost couldn't believe it. Like Peter himself, surprised to see his aunt and being in her arms again. 

“Are you real?” Peter asked, knowing he probably sounded like a child, but he needed to know she was real. Needed to know it wasn’t another lie.

She pulled away to hold Peter’s face in her hands. Her thumbs stroked his cheeks, warming them in the dank, stone-built room. Peter looked up at his aunt’s wistful smile as her eyelashes wiped up the tears from her eyes. Her hand carded through his hair before she took his hand in her own, feeling warmth coming from her palm into his fingers.

“I’m right here with you, bud,” May affirmed with a happy smile. “Not going anywhere.”

Peter dropped his head into her and his aunt’s arms went around him again. “Oh—thank god,” he exhausted in complete relief. “Thank god… I thought—”

“I’m okay.”

“He ordered—”

“I’m okay.”

“—threatening you and I—”

May took his chin and made Peter look back up at her. “Peter—I’m fine,” she assured. “No one hurt me.”

“But… how? Mr. Stark—”

“Stark isn’t the one in charge around here.”

Peter’s eyes darted passed his aunt to the door, where the deadly, famed assassin Black Widow guarded.

It took Peter a moment to recognize her. Last he saw Natasha Romanoff, he was nursing a black eye from Powers while she was about to reveal something in regards to her aunt. But, then she backed out and disappeared. When Peter asked about her to Mr. Stark, he acknowledged she was on a deep undercover assignment for the Avengers.

And now, she barricaded the door, dressed in a black suit with an olive green vest over it. There was padding on her elbows and knees, with a thigh holster on her leg to hold her glock. And her famed widow bite was attached to her wrists, like his web-shooters, and her two batons were holstered on her back, crisscrossed. Her red-blood hair turned shock white, and cut short to her chin.  

Her tall, heeled boots clicked against the stone as she approached. "How you doing, kid?"

Peter jerked back as his muscles and bones protested at the jolt. He darted to the corner of his bed, grabbing his aunt. May let out a yelp of surprise and stopped herself from falling over. Peter balled into position to either leap at Black Widow or simply to jump in front of his aunt to protect her. "Stay back!" he shouted, though it came out more of a squeak than a threatening growl. "Stay away from us!"

Natasha stopped and cast a look to May, who stared at Peter, bewildered. "Peter, calm down!” May said. “It’s all right.”

Peter shook his head. No, it was not all right. "She works for Mr. Stark!" he jabbed her finger right at Natasha. "She's undercover!"

That earned him wry smirk from the famed Black Widow. "So that's what Stark is telling everyone?" she remarked, not offended by his cruel accusation. "Not bad. Probably would have said the same thing if one of my best lieutenants defected to the other side."

Peter didn't know what to say to that. His eyes flashed from Natasha to May back to Natasha. "But... you were there," he reiterated, as if to try to not only convince his aunt and Natasha, but also himself. That he wasn’t making it all up. "At the Compound... you helped Mr. Stark—"

“Peter," May interrupted, grabbing his attention. "Ms. Romanoff saved me. Okay? She helped me.”

"But—" That couldn't be right. She was at the Compound. She worked for Mr. Stark! She was sent away on a mission for the Avengers. She couldn’t… wouldn’t help his aunt. Not after Mr. Stark ordered for his aunt to be brought back to the Tower.

A lie. Another lie. He couldn’t trust Black Widow. She worked for Mr. Stark. He and his aunt were trapped in this hellhole dungeon because of them. But, why did his aunt think they were safe? Why did she trust Black Widow? It didn’t make sense.

Natasha sensed his conflicting thoughts. “You’re right to distrust me,” she said. “I didn’t leave you a very good impression.”

Her vanishing act wasn’t appreciated, especially after she dangled information about his aunt. “Did you know?” he asked.

Her face turned grave, remorseful. “I tried to tell you.”

She did, but she didn’t. “Why didn’t you?”

“Nellie walked in,” Black Widow answered, simply and unbothered by the interrogation. “She would have informed Stark that I was there and he would ask if we spoke. I felt no need to put us in a precarious situation.

“Of course, that didn’t matter in the end,” she continued on, moving to the other side of the room. “Stark figured it out. I had no choice.” She looked back to Peter. “I tried to reach you, but… again, Stark's a futurist. Thought ahead.”

Peter’s brows bunched in puzzlement. He thought back to those earlier months in the Compound. He couldn’t recall any incident revolving around Black Widow except for that weird hospital visit. He concentrated harder until an image bubbled up to the surface, forming into a memory of a late-night disturbance. Of a man barricading Peter in his room. Of whispers of keeping the asset safe. Alarms going off and depressing, lonely thoughts of someone else escaping while he remained trapped in a windowless room.

“It was you,” Peter uttered, blinking up to Natasha. “You were the alarms!”

“You remember?”

Peter nodded, his neck aching. “They kept me in my room.”

“I’m sorry.” And she meant it. Peter could tell.

May sat on the bed and slid her arms around him, pressing him close to her side. Her hand carded the back of his head, trying to relieve him of any and all stress that bundled him into a ball. Or maybe to simply anchor her own feelings of learning what Peter experienced.

Peter rested his heavy head on Aunt May’s shoulder, happily relieved to be with her again. How many days has he dreamed of being back with her? Too many.

He moved his head to adjust himself better on his shoulder when the skin on the base of his neck stretched. “Ow,” he winced as he brushed against the back of his neck, feeling the tender skin.

Why was his neck sore? 

It hit him. The ache in his neck coursed through his entire body as he remembered the longest night of his life. The chip. The tracking chip that controlled and monitored Peter, place secretively within his body without permission. Done in order to subdue him or locate him anywhere.

Locate him here…

Peter surged to his feet, breaking away from Aunt May, shocking her and Natasha. He clawed at his neck, digging through the agony he felt as he cut into his body to yank out the device. He knew where it was. He can get it out.

May grabbed his hands and pulled them back from his neck. “Peter! No—don’t… stop that!”

Peter yanked his hands out of his aunt's grip. “No! I got to get it out! It’s… inside me. He’ll find us!”

Natasha snatched his arms and twisted them behind him, locking them in place. Peter struggled and whined. “You don’t understand! There’s a chip! He put a chip in me! He can find me!”

“It’s okay, Peter.”

“No it’s not!” Peter yelled, tugging to break free. But his time in the Negative Zone still left him vulnerable weak. Not up to par in his normal physical state. Tears filled his eyes, brimming right on the edge. “You don’t understand! He’ll find me! I got to get it out. You—it’s in my neck! Please! Get it out! Take it out!”

Neither his aunt nor Black Widow budged from their stance. His aunt looked sympathetic, eyes getting smaller as she watched his panic. “Peter, it’s all right. Nothing is in your neck.”

Peter shook his head. “It’s in there! I felt it!” he cried, shaking as cold drifted through his body. “You gotta get it out before he comes!”

“Peter—”

“Is everything okay in here?”

All three heads turned back to the door. Peter instantly stopped fighting.

It was Captain America.

His mere presence rippled through the room, commanding full attention. He stood at the door, composed, as he took in the scene of two women wrestling with a frantic child. Peter was transfixed, unable to even breathe as he stared at the famous war hero (or war criminal). He looked nothing like Peter expected the great Captain America to look. The clean-shaved image was gone, replaced with a new grizzled look of a full beard, longer hair and the aged costume gave him an antique appearance. Someone who weathered the worse and still going through the years.

Natasha released his arms and May took hold of him, running her hand over his head in hopes it would settle him.  

“Everything is fine,” Natasha answered. “He was freaking out about the transmitter chip.”

Captain America’s brows rose up, but so did the tiny smile that tried to peak behind the beard. “You don’t have to worry about that, son,” he informed Peter. “Doctor Strange did fine work. Got it out of you without any damage.”

Peter’s brows furrowed in misunderstanding. “What?”

“Did you not tell him?” Captain America directed his question to Natasha.

“He just woke up.”

Captain America understood. “Nat? Why don’t we let the boy and his aunt have some time together?” he said. “Have them catch up?”

Natasha agreed, leaving Peter with his aunt. She shot him a quick wink, and Captain America told his aunt to let them know if they needed anything.

“It's nice to finally meet you, Peter," Captain America said as he took the doorknob to close it behind him. "We'll see you around soon.”

Then, the door closed and it was just Peter and his aunt.

Peter gawked at the space Captain America previously occupied, uncertain if he truly saw the great legend.

May tugged on her nephew, shepherding him back to the cot. “Come on. Sit,” she urged him. “You shouldn’t be up for too long. Doctor’s orders.”

Peter fell back onto the bed at her prompting. “Was that really—”

“Yep.”

He blinked, starry eyed at his aunt. “How?”

Aunt May told him of her tale. After he abandoned her in the alley, May was frantic to get out of the webbing, but she was unsuccessful in removing the webbing from her trapped hand. She nearly gave up when Natasha Romanoff appeared.

“She had been keeping an eye out on me,” May told Peter. “When she saw the smoke, she figured Stark sent agents.”

Natasha got her out of Peter’s webbing with some kind of specialized knife. Free, May wanted to run straight to Stark Tower and get her nephew, but Natasha stopped her. Agents swarmed the area, locking the neighborhood down in order to find her. Use her against Peter.

She offered another way and May, knowing she didn’t have much choice, followed her lead. Natasha Romanoff smuggled them out of Queens and into Brooklyn, down into a series of underground tunnels. It was there she was introduced to Captain America and his superhero squad.

“I asked them for help,” May continued the story. “I was… basically out of mind! I was willing to give them anything if they would get you back. I even offered up my wedding ring!”

Peter instantly looked down at his aunt’s hand. Ben’s ring was still there.

May fondly rotated it along her bony finger. “Obviously, Captain Rogers is exactly as you think Captain America would be. He was kind and compassionate. He didn’t ask for anything. He knew about you. Natasha told him, but the heavy security at the Compound made it impossible for them to get inside the walls.

“I thought it was never going to get you back. Hell—I was ready to just… storm the Tower by myself and everything,” May said, her voice cracking a bit, and fingers weaving together. “But… Captain Rogers said he knew a man who may help. A wizard, if you can believe it. We met with the wizard and he brought you back to me. That’s how you got here.”

Peter listened to the crazy, unbelievable true story with an incredulous arch of his brows. “A wizard?”

“Wizard! Doctor! I don’t know. He performed some kind of miracle and, anyway, I got you back,” she said, sniffling to hold back the tears filling her eyes. “Natasha warned us about a chip in your neck and so, surgery was done right away. He removed it without any complications. I was so grateful and again, I offered my ring up as payment for his services, but he waved it off.”

She looked exhausted telling her story. Heavy bags hung beneath her red eyes and stress etched into every groove of her skin, May was wrung out. Peter knew it was his fault. His disappearing act, followed with leaving her in that alleyway, afraid and desperate, was the reason May looked awful. Hiding underground probably didn’t help either, but that was his fault too. He got her caught into this madness she never knew existed.

Yet, it all melted away from her face the second May gave him a small smile. “You’re safe now, kiddo. Stark can’t get to you,” she promised, patting down his messy curls. “I won’t allow it.”

She hugged Peter again, pulling him in with her hand supporting the back of his head. Peter leaned against her, letting himself fall into her chest and hearing the strong, but frantic, heartbeat within her. 

“I'm so sorry," Peter muffled through her shirt. "I was trying to protect you...”

“I know," came May's hushed tone, "but you don't have to protect me. I'm stronger than I look.”

“I noticed," Peter joked, remembering her bravery. "You kicked ass.”

May chuckled through the tears, pulling up a smile. “No one comes between me and my kid. Ever.”

How did he ever deserve a wonderful person like May in his life? His bastion of strength! Keeper of solace! Pillar of trust! She was the only person he loved in this whole world.

And no one would ever take him away from her ever again. Peter nestled closed to her, thankful to have her in his life again.

“Oh? And Peter?” came May’s voice.

Peter tilted his head up. “Yeah?”

"If you  _ever_  use your webbing or powers against me again," May started, pointedly, "you're grounded for life."

Figures, Peter thought, but he never had any intentions of ever doing that to her again.

* * *

“Here—eat this.”

May pressed a banana in his hand when Peter woke up. Most of the food was already gone. After all, he woke up much later than the rest of people squatting in the tunnels. A week passed since Peter woke up the first time. His neck healed and his strength returned, but his aunt continued to treat him as if he was still recovering from a terrible, crippling accident.

She dropped a bottle of water in front of him. “And drink this,” she ordered. “You need to stay hydrated. And eat that whole banana! Don’t just nibble. I’m going to see if I can scrounge something more filling for you.”

May was gone, her red hair whipping behind her as she went out to find more food for him to eat. It wasn’t necessary. Peter wasn’t that hungry. He took his seat on one of the few chairs and tables available in the main room that used to be the main bomb shelter. He began to peel the banana apart, squeezing the fruit in between his fingers before popping into his mouth. It made his stomach quench, but he pushed passed the uneasy feeling and tried to eat a little more until he couldn’t do it.

“You gonna finish that?”

Peter blinked down and found a little boy with a messy head of brown hair and large eyes. The boy nibbled on his lower lip, wide on the banana.

He handed the boy his unfinished banana. “It’s all yours.”

The boy beamed. He snatched the banana and rushed off, leaving Peter alone in the old bomb shelter. He didn’t know who the kid was, but suspected the child to be one of Hawkeye’s children. His family lived down in the tunnels as well for protection, as did others. Anyone close to the rogues all had to go on the run.

Their makeshift home was a series of networking tunnels under Brooklyn, designed for subway tracks before being transformed into World War II bomb shelters. By then, though, everyone forgot about the tunnels and they were abandoned for years until Captain America returned to Brooklyn.

Now, it was the secret headquarters for the Rogue Avengers.

It wasn’t as extravagant compared to Mr. Stark’s compound. While Mr. Stark fancied modern and minimalistic furnishing that still screamed money, the tunnels were Spartan. Very few furnishings. Everything basic and plain. Food was dismal, nothing like the well-cooked meals he was fed when living at the Compound.

May returned, carrying two sandwiches. She handed both to Peter. “You finished your banana?” she sounded shocked and pleased. “Good—eat these too. Need to keep up your strength.”

Peter groaned inward as he took the peanut butter sandwiches. He’s eaten peanut butter sandwiches every day and was quite sick of them. He didn’t know if he could eat another one, let alone two. But he ate them as quickly as he could to keep his stomach from regurgitating it back up.

Despite the Spartan lifestyle and the rationed foods, Peter preferred the old, cavernous tunnels compared to the fancy compound. He had his aunt, who was with him every day, helping and keeping him company among the legendary heroes of Captain America, Black Widow, Hawkeye, Falcon, Scarlet Witch and many others he never knew existed. A few occupants were happy to make his acquaintance, like Scott Lang, aka Ant-Man. He was a joy! He laughed easy, smiled wide and always wanted an audience for his magic tricks which wowed Peter. For a moment, Peter thought Scott was the wizard who rescued him, but he shortly learned that wasn’t the case. Scott was just a bored magician. 

Others weren’t as welcoming of his presence. After all, they heard about his dalliance as Tony Stark’s protégé, if that’s what they wanted to call it. Peter preferred prisoner. Yet, they were wary of him. Distrustful. Like he was the enemy, trying to pose as one of them. It made things awkward, but it was far better than life at the Compound. He rather take awkwardness than intimidation.

What he hated the most was the boredom. He didn’t have much of a schedule either. After all, Captain America didn’t force him to participate in boot camp or assigned him a personal tutor for schooling hours. There was no schedule for him to follow. No routine. He was a free man—with limits.

While he watched others make trips to the surface to honor their duties in protecting civilians, Peter had to stay down below. Whenever he asked or tried to sneak out, they stopped him. Gave him excuses like needing more rest or keeping his aunt company or there were enough people out already. But Peter saw the lies in their eyes and heard the hesitation in their voices when they spoke to him. They grounded him. And it didn’t sit well with him. He wasn’t an average civilian. He was super-powered. He was Spider-man! He needed to be out there. He _needed_ to do his part.

Peter told this to Black Widow at the end of one of their drills. Black Widow, recognizing Peter was going stir-crazy, offered to do practice drills with him. Exercises to keep his skills warm. They would practice in the far back end of the tunnels, away from where his aunt would wander. He didn’t want her to see him practicing his fighting techniques.

“You know… if anyone wants a break,” Peter offered as he wiped the sweat away from his brows, “on one of these night errands or something… I can help.”

Black Widow, who wasn’t even sweating, shook her head. “Not your responsibility kid,” she answered. “Besides, don’t think Cap would appreciate it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a kid,” Black Widow shrugged. “Cap’s old school. Kids don’t belong in wars.”

“You think they do?” Peter questioned.

“I grew up differently from Cap. I wasn’t raised in America nor was I raised as a child. I was always raised to be an assassin. In my life, children are the best assets in war.”

Peter had no idea. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Black Widow brushed his apology aside. “I got my revenge.”

“Which was what?” Peter inquired, interested. He knew little of the famed Black Widow. She was notorious for her secrecy.

But, Black Widow only offered him a sly smile. “You better get back to your aunt,” she advised. “She’s probably wondering where you ran off to.”

He wasn’t the only one with cabin fever. May wanted to leave once Peter was well, but Captain America and the others advised against it. With their apartment destroyed, financial assets likely frozen and SHIELD units swarming the city, it was safer for them to stay underground until it all blows over. 

It was a nice way of saying they were fugitives; and therefore, trapped underground. Never to return home or experience a normal life. It was difficult for May to get her head wrapped around it. She spent most of her time hovering over him, constantly worrying and checking in on him. Almost like she thought if she wasn’t with him, then he was gone. Throughout the day, she hassled him with food. Not that he didn’t eat, but she kept insisting he needed more. Peter’s stomach fluctuated constantly since his rescue. Food was hard to eat. His body cramped and his guts twisted so tight that sometimes he puked it up. That always got his aunt’s attention and she promptly put him to bed for rest. He tried to argue that it was probably lingering effects from his stay in the Negative Zone, which only made her more certain that he needed rest.

Nonetheless, May kept a positive attitude on the whole thing. Almost like trying to distract herself and Peter that their lives weren’t degraded to sewer rats. She kept promising Peter that things would get better, and that they could go back to their old lives soon, but each time she said it, there was less conviction in her words. Like she knew it was a lie, but tried to believe in it.

Peter knew it was a lie. The Accords continued to reign terror with Mr. Stark at its helm. Captain America and his team did their best to counter the Accords’ actions, but their numbers dwindled too. Many abandoned the group to hide somewhere else and others were captured by agents. Every night, people shared solemn glances to one another when news trickled down that someone disappeared. It sent shivers right up Peter’s spine and straight to his head, reminders of what happened to him when he got caught.

May pushed her hair back as Peter finished his last bite. “How you feeling champ? Better now?”

Peter always answered with a yes. “Yes.”

“Good,” May said, as she reached over to brush back a few strands of his hair. “You know this isn’t a permanent thing, right? We’ll get out of here soon.”

Again, Peter answered, “Yeah, I know.”

“Good,” she affirmed back, “as long as we have each other, we’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.” And that was the only time he meant it.

May pressed the water forward to Peter, which he chugged a gulp to satisfy his aunt’s anxiety. “What plans do you have for today?” she asked. It was a question she asked every day. And, mostly, Peter responded with the same, indifferent shrug.

“I don’t know,” Peter shrugged. Normally around this time he would be with Mr. Stark or Happy, working in a lab or practicing boxing in the ring. That didn't matter though. Not at the moment. That was the past. He was in the present, needing to find something that would engage him. “I guess I’ll read or something. Not really much to do now. I’ve seen everything.”

May nodded along. “Yeah, but, hey—chin up, right?” she said, tapping underneath his chin. “Things will get better. Gotta believe it.”

Sometimes Peter did, but as the days wore on and turned into more days, which grew into weeks, that hope diminished quickly.

Nights were always the hardest for Peter. Particularly tonight when Peter struggled to sleep. His mind buzzed with torturous reminders of Powers slamming his aunt's head. Of being told to fire the gun. Of listening to Mr. Stark's lies. It burned in his head and bled through the rest of his body. Some nights, when his thoughts were too intense to even close his eyes, Peter stealthily slipped out of his shared cot with his aunt to take a walk along the tunnels. It was something to do. Burn off the nervous energy that ate at him. It was hard to discern the feeling in his gut as starvation or emotional turmoil. 

Late that night when his thoughts bombarded him to the point he wanted to squeeze his brain into mush. Restlessly awake, Peter snuck out of his shared room with May to stroll the cavernous corridors of their underground lair. The thick scent of mold sickened him and the soft humming of electricity’s current going through a string of lights down the tunnels annoyed him. He would never considered himself as being claustrophobic, but living underground after a week turned him into one.

The tunnels were empty at this time of night. Most of the civilians that hid underground with their loved ones were asleep like May. Even a few super-powered individuals were tucked and nestled in for the night. Peter did his best to keep his feet light and his presence invisible as he moved down the tunnels. No need to bother anyone or let anyone know he was strolling around the tunnels.

“SHIELD units picked up Minoru early tonight.”

Peter stopped walking. That sounded like Steve. Peter looked up and down the tunnels. He didn’t see Captain America anywhere.

“Jones, Minoru… who’s next?”

That sounded like Hawkeye. Peter tip-toed down the tunnel, listening as the voices got a little louder. Peter pressed himself against the walls, doing his best to blend into the walls, not carry that drips of condensations dropped on his head. It was filthy anyway with the limited water sources they had.

“Nobody,” Captain America said, sounding affirmed in his declaration. “Not if we can help it.”

“There’s been an increase in agents patrolling the area,” Peter heard Natasha say as he drew closer to a somewhat jarred door. “For every man we gain, we lose three.”

“All of them sent to that prison of theirs... what is it called? The Hole?” challenged another voice Peter didn’t recognize.

“Negative Zone,” corrected Captain America. “That’s what Dr. Richards’ dubbed it. As does Dr. Strange.”

Peter got to the door and peeked between the cracks. There were a handful of people surrounding a table. Captain America was at its head, standing up while Nat was on his right, sitting with legs crossed. Beside her was Hawkeye. On Cap’s other side was Sam Wilson and Scarlet Witch. They were also standing, with Sam’s arms crossed and Scarlet Witch leaned over the table, looking at something on the table Peter couldn’t quite view. The others were people he met in passing, not interested in getting to know him.

There was a squeak of a chair scraping across the stone floor. A woman with platinum, blonde hair falling over her dirtied, white hoodie stood with hands in fists. “Then we need to destroy it! Get them out!”

“It’s not that simple,” Captain America answered. “Johnny said Reed updated security that it’s impossible for anyone to enter the Baxter Building. Including himself.”

“Because he insulted his brother-in-law,” quipped Hawkeye. “Anyway, it’s not Reed’s tech. It’s Stark’s. His programs are unbeatable. Unhackable.”

Peter thought. He worked on Mr. Stark’s technology, learned the designs and the codes to create different systems. Most of it was for fun, but Peter worked on a few projects relating to Stark Industries and Avengers business. Securities, weapons, and even the helicarrier cloaking system. Peter had a fair amount of knowledge on Mr. Stark’s technological set-ups.

A voice interrupted his thoughts. “Why don’t we just call up Strange to go free everyone?”

“Because he’s not interested,” replied Captain America.

“He saved the boy!”

Him. She was talking about him.

“That was for a different reason.”

From the way the woman huffed and lips thinned into a straight line, she didn’t accept that answer. “My partner is inside that prison. He did nothing wrong! But Stark sent him there because he refused him. What’s the difference? What makes Spidey-boy any different than my friend?”

There was a long, awkward pause. “There isn’t, but Dr. Strange made his choice. We must respect his decision.”

“It’s a stupid decision,” piped up a curly hair man. “My team is broken. I’m the only one left. Matthew Murdock. Jessica Jones. Luke Cage—

Peter perked up at the name. Luke! The man knew Luke. They were teammates. Luke never mentioned teammates from before. Was there a falling out? Or did Luke get captured and made the decision to join to avoid the Negative Zone?

Probably the last one.

“The only reason there are more SHIELD units on the street is because of that kid,” continued the hot-headed curly-haired man that used to be Luke’s teammate. “He’s the reason Jones was taken. They’re looking for him.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. They were searching for him? Why? Mr. Stark had a whole army at his command. He didn’t need him.

“We don’t know that,” Captain America countered.

“It’s the reason, Cap,” Sam reasoned. “Increase number of agents swarming the city—this particular city? Danny’s right. Stark wants the kid back.”

Panic began like a cluster of spark plugs in his abdomen. His heart seized at the sudden shock. It shouldn’t come as a surprise. When he first escaped the Compound over the fence, they had sent a squad after him, along with assassins. Even Mr. Stark participated in his recapture.

But why him? He wasn’t special. He wasn’t extremely powerful like other superheroes. He was Peter Parker. A stupid, foolish kid from Queens. And besides, Peter wouldn’t go along with Mr. Stark’s plan. He wouldn’t help him take out Team Captain America. He won’t kill anyone. He won’t follow his orders. Surely Mr. Stark knew that.

“Or he just wants to know how we got the kid from a place that is supposed to be impenetrable?” Black Widow offered, shooting up a single brow in challenge toward Sam. “That there’s someone out there that can create portals into the Negative Zone? I would be freaking out if I was him, especially if they start stealing its occupants.”

“Well, in any case, Tony can’t have him,” Steve asserted, ignoring it altogether. “And that’s not our focus. We need to find a way into the building. Get to the portal and shut it down.”

“That's near impossible,” Scarlet Witch stated. Dark, red strands of her hair fell over her intense gaze. “Only way to get in is through force, which would be suicide for us.”

Peter watched Steve's shoulders sagged, letting out a long, tired sigh. A man at the end of his thread. "There is this window of opportunity," he said, eyeing everyone in the room. "If we can get pass the security system in place and shut down the portal, then we can be reunited with our friends and loved ones."

Peter twisted around, squatting low as he tried to crack the door a little wider. He needed to hear this. After all, he worked alongside Mr. Stark and his many projects. He worked on the man’s technology all the time. Mr. Stark taught him coding and programming, and Peter became proficient in working with Stark’s technology.

“We need to figure out a way to beat Stark’s coding,” Steve came to his finishing conclusion. “Until then, we have no chance in freeing our friends and closing the portal for good.”

He could help the team get passed the security system, and to the portal in Dr. Richards' lab.

Peter decided to reveal himself. He pushed the door all the way open and stepped inside the room. 

“I can do it.”

Everyone turned at once. Multiple pair of eyes looking right at him. Some with skepticism, others with incredulity. And one with somber knowledge.

“Peter—” began Steve, but he was quickly cut off by Falcon.

“What are you doing here?” Sam demanded. “This is a closed-door meeting.

"The door was open," Peter returned.

“And how long have you been listening at the door?" Sam challenged. "What? Planning a way to counter-strike us?”

“Easy, Sam," quipped Hawkeye. "No need to be testy.”

Peter was hurt. For them to even consider that he would betray them after all they did to save his aunt and rescue him was painfully deprecating. "I-I wouldn't do that! Not after everything he did to me," he said, bitter at their resentment of him, before he turned to Steve. "I can help. I've seen the portal. I watched Dr. Richards work it."

That got everyone in the room tensed, and more faces scrutinized him with suspicion. Peter ignored them though, focused on Captain America as his brain filtered in the information Peter just released. As long as Captain America approved, then everyone else would follow and listen. He hoped.

Unfortunately, Steve didn't speak up. Rather, Scarlet Witch's eyes glowed right at him. "You know how to hack Stark tech? When the most advanced geniuses struggle to even mimic his technology," she commented with skepticism, "you say you can?"

He never said it like that. "That's not... look—Mr. Stark trusted me. He taught me his coding and programming," he explained. “I know how Mr. Stark thinks. I can figure a way out around the code—”

“So you can alert him we’re coming?” grumbled the curly, frizzled hair of an irate man named Danny. “Because that’s the last thing we need.”

“I-I… no!” Peter argued and he turned his pleading look back to Steve. “Look—Cap, Mr. Stark let me work on his tech. I know how he programs them to do—”

“Told ya,” said a platinum blonde woman, dressed in jeans and a white hoodie. “Stark’s protégé.”

Peter’s jaw hardened, teeth grinding at the woman’s words. “I’m not his protégé.”

“Yet you know all about how his mind works and can beat his unbeatable tech?” she accused as a few around her murmur in agreement. 

Steve looked crossed at the woman. “That’s enough Dagger."

Dagger huffed in response, but said nothing more. Yet, Peter sensed her accusatory thoughts, among others who now studied him with a drop of paranoia. 

Steve let out a deep sigh. “Everyone? Give me a minute with Peter.”

“Cap—”

“It’s all right, Sam,” Captain America reassured the Falcon. “It won’t take long.”

Everyone moved to the door. Peter stayed still as they walked passed him. Some glared, and others like Black Widow, gave him a sympathetic smile before disappearing and leaving Peter with Steve Rogers.

“I can do this," Peter insisted as the great hero moved around the table toward him. "You  _know_  I can.”

"I don't doubt your talents,” replied Steve.

Peter’s heart sank. “You doubt my loyalty?”

Steve shook his head. “I'm not asking for your loyalty,” he said and he pulled two chairs before gesturing one to Peter. “Take a seat.”

Peter sat, thinking he was about to receive a lecture. After all, Captain America did those videos for his school. It would not surprise him to be hearing one of them now.

Steve stared at him for a moment, his hands folded on his lap. “May spoke to me earlier today,” he started, throwing Peter completely off-guard. “Said you weren’t eating.”

“What? I eat,” Peter automatically stated, pondering for reasons why his aunt would talk to Captain America about his eating habits. “I eat every day… how does it have anything to do with beating Mr. Stark?”

“It doesn’t. We’re concerned. Your aunt says you’re not eating enough,” Steve measured him fully, taking in the dirty hair, the chalky appearance and the slender built that needed energy to sustain itself. “And I think she’s right. With your metabolism, you should be eating the same amount I am every day, but you… I saw you struggle to finish a banana.”

Peter furrowed his eyebrows at the bizarre comment, but then remembered that morning of giving away his banana to one of Hawkeye’s children to finish. He hadn’t realized Captain America was nearby, watching the exchange.

“I was full,” Peter tried to dismiss.

“It was breakfast. You just woke up.”

He couldn’t believe this. He volunteered for a mission to stop Mr. Stark and he was receiving a lecture on his eating habits. And it was ridiculous! He ate! And, maybe he doesn’t eat as much as he should, but there’s little to go around. Peter didn’t need to horde all the food when others were struggling to feel full too.

And this was pointless! There were bigger concerns to worry about.

“I eat. Okay? Maybe not a lot, but there’s not a lot to go around and everyone needs to eat. Not just me, so… it’s fine. I’m fine. Not starving or anything.” Peter defended himself, hoping that would end this inane discussion.

Captain America, apparently, had more concerns to list. “What about your insomnia?”

Peter was blown away by these sudden accusations. “I sleep too!”

Steve shot him a humored look. After all, they were both sitting beside one another, talking at around two in the morning. Not exactly a normal sleep schedule.

“Okay, well, I sleep. Just not at the hours everyone else does,” Peter amended, grumpily. “I get enough.”

“Three to four hours isn’t enough, son.”

“Mr. Stark sleeps that much!”

Peter stiffened. His mouth went dry and his stomach fluttered in nerves. He didn’t mean to say that. His name. That man’s name. It just came out. And now, it settled between him and Steve, leaving a heavy tension for them to burden.

Tightness in his chest, he quickly tried to retract his words. “I-I… I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay, Peter,” Steve’s voice sounded sad and heavy. “You’re right. Stark only sleeps about three hours, if any. I don’t know how many times Pepper had to force him to go to bed. Presumably a lot.”

Peter remembered the numerous times Pepper called Mr. Stark to remind him that Peter couldn’t stay up the whole night in the labs or garage. Sometimes she would make an appearance to drag Peter to his bedroom for a good nights’ rest, warning him to not pick up on Mr. Stark’s bad habits.

It made him smile a little before his stomach grumbled in protest. He needed to stop thinking back to those false memories. They had no meaning anymore.

“Peter?” Steve called to get his attention again. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am,” Peter rebuffed. “Never felt better.”

His stomach gave him an unpleasant flip.

Steve stared at him, like he knew Peter’s answer was wrong. “What you went through, I imagine it’s not easy for a person to overcome, let alone a child.”

“I’m not a child,” Peter said, but he bit his tongue for his petulant rebuttal. What was the point? For a man out of time, Peter was practically a baby in his eyes.

Steve wasn’t hindered by the interruption. “You can talk to me about it,” he said, propping his elbows against his knees as he leaned closer to Peter. “What happened there at the Compound or even in the Negative Zone... I don’t mind listening.”

Captain America thought he was disturbed. Troubled in the mind from his abuse and incarceration. But he was fine! Thinking clearly and vividly. He wasn’t broken or ruined. He was fine. Alive and with his aunt again. Everything was fine.

“I’m fine,” Peter reiterated. “Really. I’m good. There’s nothing wrong. I’m fine. And I’m ready to help. Help you and the team out on missions. I have talents and I’ve been training forever. I can help, Captain.”

He saw Steve’s answer in his eyes before the hero answered. “You’ve already been through enough, son,” he said, voice gentle and not prickled by his insistence, which would often annoyed Mr. Stark whenever Peter battered him with the same questions. “This isn’t your fight. Be with your aunt. Be a kid.”

“I can't do that," Peter stated and when Steve started to argue, he interrupted him. "No, no, no, you don't understand. This is my fight now. Mr. Stark took nine months of my life! He manipulated me. Lied to me. He... I need to get him back!”

Steve discouragingly frowned. "You shouldn't seek revenge, Peter."

"Isn't that what you're doing?" Peter accused, not appreciating the dismissal of his reasons to join the fight against Mr. Stark.

“No.”

“But you were just talking about breaking into the Baxter Building! Stopping him—”

“I talked about freeing people who were unlawfully imprisoned," Steve corrected, tone firm like his words were stone rather than air. "I never said I was going to fight Tony.”

Peter was annoyed. He thought Captain America and his team were going to stop Mr. Stark. Make it possible for him and his aunt to return to Queens. Return to normalcy. And the only way to do that was to stop the man.

“Why not?”

“Because he's my friend.”

It took a moment for Peter to process Steve’s word through his stunned mind. His breath hitched in his throat, eyes widening in betrayal and then fear. He scooted away from the captain, almost feeling like he needed to shout for the others. Tell them Captain America was working for Mr. Stark.

“Relax, son," Captain America assuaged like he knew what was running in Peter’s mind, "I'm not working for Stark, but I'm also not going to kill him.”

“He has no problems wanting to kill you," Peter hotly remarked, thinking about all the training he done. All the lessons on defense, counter-attacking, knowing where to knock a person down. Knowing how to fire a gun. "That's what he wanted me to do. To kill you.”

Steve didn't look bothered by that revelation. "I'm not sure that's true," he said. "He may have thought you could subdue me—you  _are_  strong—but I don't think his intentions are as dire as you say."

Peter shook his head. No, Captain America was getting it. Peter was there. He lived and trained at the Compound. Mr. Stark was creating an army. All of them trained killers. What's the need for any army if you weren't planning to kill?

Still, Steve didn't take Peter's warning to heart. "He's hurt, Peter. There are things in our past... things I think we both regret," he acknowledged with rue flickering in those blue eyes. "We may have taken different paths, but it doesn't mean we want the other dead. Tony is a good man, who's trying to do what he thinks is the right thing."

Peter skewered his face into an obnoxious incredulity. Peter also once believed Mr. Stark would never do any harm against him or others. After all, he was once Iron Man. A hero. _A good man._

Not anymore. "A good man?” Peter practically spat out. “Did you not listen to me saying he took nine months of my life?! Or that he tried to hurt my aunt?"

It took Peter a lot of effort to keep his tone leveled and to not raise his voice. It wouldn’t look good to shout at Captain America. Even if the hero was being an idiot.

He glared, jaw clenched. “You call him kidnapping and holding me hostage a  _right thing_?”

Steve was unfazed by Peter’s temper. He still sat composed. Like a good soldier. “No, but I know he  _believes_  what he’s doing  _is_  the right thing.

“Peter—you lived in the city your whole life, correct?” Steve suddenly asked him.

Peter nodded, not sure what the point was in the question.

“Then you remember the Battle of New York.”

Again, Peter nodded. Images of aliens raining down onto the city, knocking whole skyscrapers down as six individuals faced against them. A nuke propelling to the city until Iron Man caught him. He watched Iron Man send it straight to the dark hole in the sky. He watched his hero disappeared into that darkness. Peter remembered holding his breath, wondering if Iron Man was gone forever.

But then he came back. The hole closed and he fell from the sky. Falling. Falling. Falling.

Peter swallowed. “Yeah… I remember it.”

Steve nodded along, somber, as if he too remembered that tragedy. “Tony hardly spoke about what happened when he went through the hole,” he said. “He came back… quieter. Whatever he saw, it freaked him out and he refused to discuss it. With any of us. Anyone to be honest.

“Instead, he dived into his work,” Steve continued. “Worked on all sorts of things. Created new tech that was going to safeguard Earth and its populace, but… he got carried away. Bad things happened.”

“You mean… the thing that happened in Sokovia? In Berlin?”

“Yes,” Steve said. He took a breath to steel himself what he had to say next. “Point is, Peter, Tony isn’t a bad person. He’s a good man who is consumed by all his fears, troubling him to the brink that he will do whatever it takes. Everything Tony’s doing is—in his mind—he’s doing it for the greater good. However, as you can attest, the ends don’t justify the means.”

Peter frowned, but he realized Steve may be right about Mr. Stark. The man always looked haunted, even when he smiled. Like he knew a deadly secret and was unable to tell anyone. There was a sense of possession too. The man needed his hands on everything to make sure it all worked his way. Because his way was the only guaranteed way to get anything done right.

Still, the man was wrong. Mr. Stark hurt him. He used him! Peter trusted him and he abused that trust for his own personal gains. "Doesn't mean I have to forgive him."

"You don't," Steve assented. "But, you understand now why I doubt Tony would kill me. And why I won’t hurt him… and why you won’t hurt him either.”

Peter was flabbergasted by the comment. Of course he wanted to get back at Mr. Stark! The man ruined him! He lied and manipulated, and he did it for power. “That’s not true! I… he…I-I would kick his ass... I mean, butt, sir—Captain. I would! Really. I would do it. I would.”

It sounded weak. Little conviction and that only made Captain America arch an eyebrow very knowingly. “Would you?” Steve turned his chair around, so that his knees bumped into Peter’s legs. “Peter—have you wondered why you’ve been suffering from loss of appetite, insomnia, nausea, and headaches ever since you came here?”

“They’re side effects of being in the Hole.”

Steve slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, son,” he disclosed. “That pain—that anger you’re feeling… it stems from betrayal.”

Peter stared right at Steve, uncomprehending the message Steve was trying to tell him. Because the man was wrong. It was side effects from being in the Hole. He knows! _He knows_.

Steve disagreed. “What you’re feeling Peter is grief,” he clarified for the kid, “You’re hurt because the person you trusted and cared for betrayed you. It has nothing to do with the Negative Zone. Those symptoms shouldn’t have lasted past day two. These symptoms—loss of appetite, insomnia, nausea—it’s grief for the loss of someone you care about.”

Peter shook his head back and forth. Only to hide the tremors that were raging the rest of his body. “I-I don’t care… I  _don’t_!”

“It's okay, Peter. I’m not judging you.”

No. It was not. Steve got it wrong! Peter didn’t care about Mr. Stark. That two-faced bastard tricked him, used him and never did he ever give a damn about it at all. And that was all fine because Peter didn’t give a damn about him either! He never did!

His heart hammered in his chest. He pressed his hand to it and hissed in pain. It hurt. Heart pumping, overworking and fire spreading from his chest down his left arm, numbing it all. His throat squeezed and air staggered out, and Peter inhaled. One breath… another breath… come on, he needed another breath…

But it didn’t stop the emotions from spewing out. They leaked out onto his face, running down his check to his chin as he continued to try to get a grip on himself. Not embarrass himself in front of Captain America. Or to have Captain America think of him as a broken child. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t crying. And he wasn’t weak. He wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t sleepy. He wasn’t…

He wasn’t himself.

Steve must have gotten out of his seat for he hovered at Peter’s side, hand on his shoulder and brows knitted in concern. “Peter? Son? Breathe. Take deeper, slower breaths for me. That’s it. Good.  _Good_. Everything is going to be fine.”

Peter shook his head. “No… n-no… I can’t…”

“It’s okay, Peter.”

Peter sniffled, loudly. He didn’t know why, but he reached out and grabbed a hold of Captain America’s arms and held tight. “Why does it hurt so much?”

He heard Steve’s sad sigh. “Because you loved him.”

The ache grew. Peter hated himself. He hated himself for crying over a traitor. For crying over someone who lied to him. Who used him, had plans to use him to hurt people. He hated that Captain America knew. He hated that he broke down in front of the hero.

But, Steve patted his back, comforting him nonetheless. “It’s hard to lose someone.”

He didn’t lose anyone though. That’s the sickening part. He didn’t lose anyone like he lost his parents. Or his uncle. Mr. Stark was alive. He walked. Breathed. Ate. Joked. Slept. Woke up. Yet, Peter brimmed with anger and sorrow, shredding him in half. His mind pounded. A tiny scrap of hope scratching into his mind with false hopes that the man Peter knew didn’t vanished. The face wasn’t a mask. It wasn’t an act.

But the darkness that opened in the middle of his chest, gulping him down, told him the truth.

Something draped over him. It was Steve’s jacket. “You’re shivering,” he explained and he adjusted it to ensure it covered Peter properly. “There. Oh, and here—”

And suddenly, Captain America was holding an orange for him to eat. Peter, trembling, took the orange and picked at the peel. He still wasn’t hungry and his stomach tensed, but he needed the distraction.

“I’m sorry,” Peter’s voice sounded frail, sniveling. “I don’t know why…”

“Don’t worry about it, Peter. I too was saddened by what happened between Tony and me,” Steve said, as he knelt in front of Peter, making him feel smaller than he already felt. “Life goes on though.”

“It’s different for me though,” Peter said, soft and hurt. “You were actually a friend of Mr. Stark’s before all of this. I wasn’t.” He lowered his chin as he slouched in his chair. “I was nothing to him.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily true.”

Peter scoffed. Captain America. Always the blind optimist. “He inserted a chip in me to control me. He sent killers after me. He threw me into the Hole,” he listed off. “He doesn’t give a damn about me unless I follow him like a good puppy.”

When Peter heard no reply, he glanced up at the man. Steve wore an interesting expression. Kind, but sad.

“What?”

“I believe when the time comes,” Steve said, carefully and thoughtfully, “Tony would do it.”

That left Peter even more befuddled than before. “Do what?”

“Choose you.”

"For what?"

"Over power."

Peter drew his brows together in an incredulous furrow. Wasn’t Steve listening to anything he said? Mr. Stark shoved him into the Hole. Sent out his worst enemy upon him and his aunt. He would wipe Peter out of existence before he ever sided with him. The man Peter once knew was gone, or more appropriately, never existed for him.

“You haven’t been around him,” Peter snubbed Captain America’s belief as ridiculous. “He’s not the person you think he is. That person you knew once. He’s not that guy.”

“Maybe,” Steve solemnly acknowledged, “but I’m the type of person who believes the best in people. I still believe in Tony. I still believe he would do the right thing when it comes time.

“But you’re right, we aren’t the same men we once were,” Steve rose up to his full height. “I wish Tony and I came to an agreement, but the truth is, we are too different in our causes.  I believe in having personal rights and freedom, and Tony—he just wants Earth to be safe, and I can’t fault him on that.

“But putting a gun to every head and saying it’s for security… it’s not freedom,” Steve said, his voice sounding small and difficult, like he struggled to believe what was happening outside the tunnels. “The safest hands are still our own. I can’t turn away from people who need help. No matter the cost.”

Steve draped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “That includes you, son,” he said. “I can’t have you joining us, even if you know how to hack Stark’s tech. It’s too much of a risk for you, and the team. I can’t do it. Especially not to your aunt. She lost you twice, Peter. Don’t let her lose you a third time.”

As much as Peter wanted to argue, to stomp his feet and rebel against Captain America’s decision, he knew the hero was right. He was probably the ranking technological expert out of everyone down in the tunnels, but it was still nowhere near the expertise level of Mr. Stark. Peter may get a good run on it, but eventually, it would alert Mr. Stark and send his men to them. Peter would be taken. And he would lose his aunt all over again.

Peter slumped, dropping his chin in his palm and let out a frustrated gruff. He hated that Captain America was right.

“How do you plan to outsmart Mr. Stark then?” Peter inquired. “Get pass the systems and break everyone out of the Hole?”

“I’ll think of something,” Steve answered, simply.

Peter gravely shook his head. “He’s got what he needs, Captain,” he warned as he stood up from his chair as well, but he wasn’t close to the height of Captain America. “He has an army. He has the tech. He has the world's government siding with him.”

“Well aware."

Peter tentatively weaved his fingers together. “You don’t stand a chance.”

Steve had to think for a moment. “Maybe not, but we’ll do our best. We’ll do the right thing, even if everyone tries to stop us,” he stated, shoulders backed and looking every part of the legendary soldier everyone knew. “It might take a day, a week, a month or even a year, but we will free those from the Negative Zone. Until then, we have to keep our head up. Keep on moving. Never stopping. Never giving up on doing what is right.”

Peter wished there was a faster way to save everyone. “There really isn’t another way?”

Steve sighed deeply, hand brushing under his chin. “No. There’s only one portal,” he answered. “That’s our one shot.”

“But… you guys said this Strange fellow could get to the Hole without going through Dr. Richards’ portal.”

“He can.”

“Did you ask him for help?”

“We did.”

“And… he said no? Like that?”

Steve nodded in disappointment. “He said his duties lie on preserving the realms and a stone. Not our squabble, which he has repeatedly told me is mute in the greater scheme of things.” He pushed the chair back to the table. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll find another way. It would have been great if Dr. Strange helped. Would reunite loved ones quicker than our current plan.

“But he doesn’t want to and we cannot force someone to do something they don’t want to do,” Captain America finished. “We have to move on and think of another way. It’s all we have unless Dr. Strange changes his mind and assists us, but as I said before, he won’t do it. Not for us anyway.”

Captain America headed to the door. Their conversation at an ending.

Peter remained standing, head tilted as an idea formulated in his head. He thought of his uncle’s words to him. Power and responsibility. Peter followed that motto of balancing power and responsibility. To do the right thing despite the hardships and obstacles in one’s path. If this Dr. Strange had the power to free those enslaved or unlawfully incarcerated, then he had the responsibility to do so, no matter if the fight holds little interest in the grand design. Lives were at stake! Freedoms stripped! Democracy at peril!

The fight for their lives were upon them.

Maybe Captain America and the others won’t approve of his interference, but Peter knew that what he had to do. Dr. Strange saved him, maybe Peter could get him to save a few more too.

As Peter trekked back to his temporary home, he busied planning his next great escape.


	23. It's Not about You

Peter found himself in the center of Greenwich Village, hustling down Bleecker Street as he persistently checked each number on the buildings he passed, searching for the Masters of the Mystic Arts’ headquarters. His feet quickened down the sidewalk, dodging other pedestrians and keeping to himself to avoid any unnecessary interactions.

It was rough getting out of Brooklyn. The subways were dangerous, and he had to walk from Brooklyn to Manhattan. He avoided the armored trucks, the police stations and tried to stay in big touristy groups as he traveled across the two boroughs. He stayed alert as well, checking over his shoulders and following his spidey-sense. He was super careful, constantly forming escape plans as he walked into each new area. He checked every face, ensuring no one noticed him or followed him. He was safe and it was going to stay that way.

Despite his diligence, he couldn’t help but hear his aunt’s sharp tone, scolding him for risking his life. It was wrong of him to lie to his aunt, telling her that he was going to meet up with Ant-Man to learn a few magic tricks. Well, only a half-lie, seeing as he was seeking magic tricks. Just not from Scott Lang. And if he told his aunt the full truth of what he planned, she would have put a stop to it. Got Nat to help her as well.

But, as Captain America told him the other night—he had to keep going and never give up on doing what’s right.

Peter slowed to a stop on the sidewalk. He reached his destination: New York Sanctum. His stomach fluttered in both anticipation and hope as he bounded up the steps to the pair of heavy doors. Peter raised his fist and knocked. It boomed loud, reverberating on the other side of the doors. Someone would hear it and come. Until then, he waited.

Peter checked the perimeter, noting anything suspicious. Had to be extremely careful being out in the open. Mr. Stark's influence stretched far and wide, and Peter knew better than to underestimate him. He had his hood up, face half-shadowed as he waited at the steps of what resembled a 20th century mansion with stone columns, brick walls and unique window designs with small, iron balconies roping any intruders off. 

When the door didn't open right away, Peter thought maybe he got the wrong address. He stole it from the Steve’s journal, where the captain scribbled this Bleecker Street address beside the name of S. Strange, but after examining the premises, he couldn’t imagine some wizard living in such an expensive three-story mansion in the center of Manhattan. 

As Peter prepared to abandon the doors in disappointment, the door creaked opened and a short, Asian man stood guard. He did not greet Peter. Only stared at him.

Peter nervously swallowed. "Hi, um, I think I might be at the wrong place," he said, a bit unnerved by the Asian's intense gaze. "I’m looking for a Mister Strange? I-I mean doctor. Doctor Strange. Is he here? Or somewhere on this block?"

The Asian man stepped aside and ushered him in. "Get in before someone unwanted sees you," grumbled the man, so Peter hurried in. 

Once inside, Peter's eyes lit up among the dark, gothic interior. He saw all sorts of mystical items and antiquities that appeared far older than time itself. Everything was immaculate and placed on podiums or in glass cases. Almost like a real museum! Peter gaped at it all, no longer second-guessing he was in the wrong spot.

The heavy doors closed, sealing Peter inside the Sanctum. Peter turned back to the greeter, extending his hand. “Hey! Hi! I’m Peter.”

The man only briefly observed the gesture before he grunted, “Wong.”

Wong brushed aside Peter’s hand and toward the massive staircase, calling up. "Strange! Your kid is here."

Peter bunched his brow at the statement, but his questioning thoughts were interrupted by another man's voice. A deep, resonated voice that sounded oddly British.

“What kid?" it called out, echoing around Peter. "I don't have a kid!”

Suddenly, a man in royal blue robes strode into view on the second floor, leaning over the bannister and down upon Wong and himself. "Oh... it's you."

The man was lean and tall. He had a thin, narrowed face and penetrating, blue eyes that noticed everything. Dark hair with silver wisps on the sides were combed neatly back from his face with the exception of a small curl over his forehead. He had a goatee similar to Mr. Stark's, but less intricate in design. Yet, Peter had an inkling that this man—wizard—was equal to Mr. Stark in brains. The man radiated intelligence as he moved around the bannister toward the stairs. 

"What are you doing here?" the man named Strange asked of Peter. 

Peter stepped a little forward, but didn't dare to enter more than granted. "I-I, um, I came by to say thank you."

Strange got to the steps, but he didn't descend. He looked down at Peter with those studious eyes, dissecting him right where he stood. "For what?"

"Saving me," Peter answered, tentatively as he wondered if he got the right person. Strange seemed too…  _clinical_  to be a wizard. "For getting me out of the Hole—"

“Is this Rogers doing?" Dr. Strange looked crossed. "Sending you to convince me to side with him?”

“W-What?" Peter was taken aback by the wizard’s bluntness. "No! I-I... he didn't send me here. I came on my own. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Strange's hard gaze lingered, deciphering if Peter was telling the truth. "Yes he does,” he affirmed as a red cloak draped across his shoulders. Did that move on its own? Or did Strange put it on? “He made sure you’d come.”

The wizard descended down the stairs. His movements were fluid, cascading down in one smooth transition that Peter was bizarre by the action until he realized the man’s feet weren’t even on the ground. He was floating inches off from the ground, his red cloak billowing from behind as it peeked around Strange to Peter almost in interest.

The wizard landed, his boots making contact against the polished wood floors. Peter shuffled backwards, taking in the tall wizard and his animated cloak. The man a brown leather belt wrapped around his waist and arm straps for his bagging Jedi-like robes. Then, nestled against his chest was an amulet of some sort, designed to resemble an eye with bars in the front to cage something within it.

As to what, Peter didn’t know and suspected he would never know.

The wizard stepped forward, towering over Peter with a glare. “Tell Captain Rogers that I will not be swayed,” he said, eyes aflame with irritation. “The Masters of the Mystic Arts are not nor will not ever be involved in their petty quarrel.”

He brushed past Peter. Discussion over.

Peter’s wide eyes trailed after him, balking at how different this Strange wizard was compared to his expectations. For a man who saved him, Strange was quite apathetic and dismissive toward him.

But Peter wasn't easily deterred. "Captain America didn't send me," he reiterated as he chased after the wizard. "I came to say thank you and... and because people need your help."

The wizard scoffed. "You mean Rogers needs my help."

"I mean the people who are unlawfully imprisoned in the Hole," Peter countered, matching the wizard's long strides to stay up with his pace. "You don't have to take sides—

The wizard vanished. Gone! In a blink of an eye. Peter slammed to a halt, head spinning as he whirled in circles to find Strange. Where did he go?

"Assisting in the release of hundreds would be considered taking sides," Strange countered, voice carrying from the opposite side of the staircase.

Peter backtracked and rushed to the other side, running passed Wong’s stoic posture, to find Strange levitating up to the highest shelf, perusing through a book. The wizard didn't throw a glance at Peter's stunned face.

“I don't need Stark or Rogers breaking down my front door," Strange continued, reviewing the opened page. "I have more pressing matters.”

"What's more pressing than the world spiraling out of control?" challenged Peter.

"The world's destruction.”

Strange said it with a deep, resonating tone that brokered no humor, no lightness and no anger. He stated it as a fact. A certainty. No fear or hesitation. It crawled all over Peter, making his limbs tremble in slight at the threat. 

"O-kay...t-that’s… yeah, that’s a good enough reason," Peter stutteringly conceded before he clenched his jaw in horror, “Wait… are you serious? Is that… is that a thing?” His heart hammered, sending an electric pulse through his entire body. “Is the world going to end—”

Strange snapped the book closed. “Well, if I don’t do my job.”

His response was direct and final. Any stumbles or faults would result in absolute destruction. Any distractions promised the decimation of the world. And to Strange, the collusion between Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers was an unnecessary distraction to whatever worried the wizard’s mind.

Strange floated back to the floor. His eyes finally meeting Peter’s gaze. “My main priority is to protect our reality,” he told Peter. “Anything else is of no concern.”

“No concern?” Peter repeated, troubled by the man’s lack of empathy at the situation happening outside his door. Did he miss all the agents patrolling the city? The sudden disappearances of so many people? “People are being abducted! Forced into becoming soldiers or… or being locked up in the Hole! Forever! I mean… you can’t tell me that’s of no concern!”

Strange shrugged indifferently. “It’s insignificant in the greater scheme of the cosmos.”

Peter blinked. He really undermined Dr. Strange’s empathy. He thought, that since he helped saved Peter, the wizard would help the others who were trapped in the Negative Zone, wasting away their natural lives because they refused to follow Mr. Stark. But Dr. Strange’s continuous dismissal on the significance of the crisis upset Peter.

“These are people’s lives!” Peter nearly screamed at the wizard. “We have a responsibility to—”

And in that second, Dr. Strange zapped out of Peter’s vision. Only an empty space remained. Peter swung round, searching for where Strange apparated to next. He ran back to the front, only finding Wong, who remained at the front door, eyes trailing Peter.

“Hey, um, do you know where—” Peter began, but then Strange reappeared, zipping past Peter.

“Responsibility?” Strange mused upon the word while Peter tripped after him. “A big word for a child.”

Peter did not appreciate Strange’s condescending attitude. “Good thing I’m smart.”

Strange spun around to face him, forcing Peter to use his super-strength to grind to a halt. Strange loomed over him, eyes in slits as he studied him. “That is still to be determined,” he said to Peter. “So far, you haven’t shown it. Running away, openly walking around New York with only a hood as a disguise, itching to go back into the throes of danger… indeed, all signs pointing to a wise man!”

Peter went to rebuke, but Strange snapped his fingers. Suddenly, Peter found himself alone and frustrated, tiring of the constant magical disappearing acts. "Can you just stop moving and lis—"

He fell, slipping out a yelp as his bottom landed on a cushioned chair. He gripped the armrests to death, rigid in his seat as he blindly stared straight ahead, trying to figure out what just happened. Did he apparate too?

Strange paced in front of him, up and down a series of bookcases. “Forgive me, Mr. Parker,” he idly waved at him, “I admire your sense of guilt. Keeps you compassionate, but it is not your  _responsibility_  to rectify the mistakes made by proud men.”

He meant Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers. Peter shuffled himself up, standing back on his feet. “I’m not trying to correct their mistakes,” he said. “I'm trying to help those who have been wronged."

"Like yourself?"

Peter's chest tightened. Head pounding again. The memories flooding him, filling him, drowning him in that tormented cyclone of abuses. His face stung in remembrance of Powers' punch. The throbbing of his thumb when he broke it. The shattering of his heart when he learned the truth of it all. 

Strange sighed. "Best dig two graves," he commented, "if revenge is what you seek."

"I don't want revenge."

"No, you just want to rescue all those in the Negative Zone," Strange wryly remarked. "Let them go free. Save them!" He stopped his pacing. "Tell me, Peter Parker, what do you expect will happen when you and I release all those people?"

"They go home," Peter tried to sound firm, but even he didn't have the conviction to believe it. Deep inside him, the truth bubbled and taunted him, knowing full well what would really happen.

And it appeared Strange knew as well since he gave a quick tsk at Peter. "Don't blind yourself on optimism," he warned. "You know what will happen. War. Death. Destruction."

Strange moved away, disappearing behind the rows of bookcases that dwelled in the large room. Peter hurried after him.

"So that's why you won't help?" Peter accused, searching the rows to find Strange. "You won't save innocent people because you think it will bring about a war?"

"No," Strange's voice floated in almost every direction. "I'm not getting involved because it's not my responsibility. That lays on Stark and Rogers. Not me. Not you."

Peter quickened his feet, checking everywhere to locate Strange. "Well, I think it does."

"Noted."

Peter swirled around to find Strange standing directly behind him. He twirled too fast, his feet slipping and he nearly feel if the cloak behind Strange didn't reach out and wrap a part of itself on his wrist, yanking him back to his feet. Peter stared, wide-eyed as the red cloak unwound itself. 

"Is your cape alive?" asked Peter, surprise crossing his face.

"You mean the Cloak of Levitation?" Strange corrected him, before he glanced down at the fluttering cloak. "It tends to have a mind of its own."

Peter's confounded gaze lingered on the cloak. "Uh, yeah, sure... makes sense," he murmured as the cloak continued to move however it pleased. Almost like it was as intrigued with Peter as he was of it. “Cool, cool, cool, cool…”

Strange sighed deeply before he clapped his hands. Peter's stomach flipped as he found himself back down to the lower levels, seated on a long couch with filled tea in a cup in his hand. The sudden transportation made Peter fidget, spilling some tea over the rim and onto his hand. He quickly placed it down on the coffee stand as Strange sat across from him, hands tented just below his chin.

"I know it is difficult to comprehend," Strange said, sounding softer than he ever spoke. More kind and gentle. Patient even. "You feel betrayed and want to do something, but in case it hasn't gotten through your head, let me repeat—don't."

Peter burned, sick of all the adults belittling his desire to right the wrongs, dismissing his pain. "Why not?"

"Because the disagreement between the two men is between them. Not us."

"But their disagreement is affecting everyone else!" Peter argued, thinking of Hawkeye and his family, thinking about Dagger, who lost her partner, thinking about the curly-haired man named Danny, who lost all his teammates, including Luke Cage. All of them got their lives tipped upside-down because of the Accords. "It's breaking families apart! It's... bad, Dr. Strange. Real bad. I know. I was there. It's not good and... If no one stops it—"

"Then it's not your fault," Strange responded, calm and unfazed. "You are not responsible for the actions of others. Only for yourself."

"But if we have the power to fix it—"

"We don't."

"You do!" Peter shouted, his voice carrying long and deep into the Sanctum until it hushed into silence. Then, he lowered his voice back to a respectable whisper. "Sorry... I mean. You do. You’re a wizard—”

“Sorcerer,” Strange immediately corrected.

“Right. Sorcerer… that sounds a lot cooler than wizard actually,” Peter mumbled mostly to himself before he looked right back up to Strange, determination etched right into his skin. “You have magic. You can help people like you helped me. You got me out of the Hole. Reunited me with my aunt—"

"Yes," Strange confirmed his actions in saving Peter, but his face held little interest in repeating it, "but freeing everyone from the Negative Zone won't fix anything. It will only aggravate it into something much worse. And then we will be dragged into a problem that never had anything to do with us."

Strange looked down to the necklace hanging around his neck. "Keeping me from fulfilling my own responsibilities to the world."

When Peter stared directly at eye of the necklace, the hairs on the nape of his neck stood up. His spidey-sense scratching at the back of Peter's head to take a step back. Whatever Strange wore around his neck was dangerous. Something of immense power.

The wizard/sorcerer gave a long look at Peter. "As much as you want to help, you cannot," he said. "Neither of us can. That task falls on Stark and Rogers. Anyone who gets involve simply become pawns on their chessboard."

Peter didn't want to believe it. He wasn't a pawn. And neither was anyone else who got locked away in the Hole or Negative Zone. This wasn't a game. People were getting hurt. Peter cannot ignore it. Not when he has powers to do something about it. Maybe Strange was right in that freeing those in the Negative Zone wouldn't end the tensions between Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers, but that wasn't what Peter wanted. He wanted to help people.

It must have shown on his face because he heard Strange groan in disappointment. "Look, kid," Strange said, grabbing Peter's attention. "You have a good heart. That’s admirable, but it won't help what's happening out there. You can't save them all."

“I have to try.”

“It will only get you killed.”

Peter dropped his head and slowing shook it back and forth. “I can’t ignore it, Dr. Strange,” he said. “I can’t… when you can do things that no one else can do, but you don’t, and then the bad things happen,” Peter paused, looking straight up into those mystical grey eyes, “they happen because of you.”

“No—it happens because people are idiots,” Strange contemptuously retorted. “Not everything is in your control, Peter. The simplest and most significant lesson of all is to know that not everything is about you. Once you realize that, then life is easier and straightforward. Your path is clear.

“Forget Stark. Forget Rogers,” Strange insisted. “You don’t owe either of them anything.”

Peter knew that, but Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers weren’t the ones on his mind. “I know I don’t, but I owe it to help those who were just as trapped and helpless as I was,” Peter pushed himself off the couch and for once, towered over Dr. Strange. “You can sit here with your books and drink your tea and perform your vanishing acts,” he said, “but I’m going to go out there and help people because that’s my responsibility! If Mr. Stark and Cap want to go at it, fine! But I won’t sit by and watch others get hurt by it. I can’t.”

Strange was weirdly quiet. His silence almost as loud as his voice. He tilted his head to the side, studying Peter like he was an actual insect rather than a human standing before him. Then, he gave Peter a dire warning.

“If you go out to fight,” Strange began, “are you ready to face the inevitable?”

His chest constricted, but Peter pressed his mouth together and gave a firm nod. “I have no choice.”

Strange tsked again. “That’s a poor man’s mantra,” he said. “We all have choices.”

“Like you choosing to stay out of it?” Peter remarked, but then his brows furrowed together in awareness. “Except, you didn’t because _you saved me_. You pulled me out of the Hole and now, Mr. Stark has men searching all over the city!

“So guess what? You’re involved now whether you like it or not. You’re a marked man,” Peter blaringly announced at Strange. “And trust me on this, Doc, Mr. Stark won’t forgive or forget you.

“But, hey, if you want to pretend that you have nothing to do with this and ignore people’s suffering to keep your hands clean, then fine. Pretend,” Peter said with a shrug of his own. He can play nonchalant too! “So, erm, thanks for saving me and everything… I’ll find my own way out.”

Peter took a step forward to find his way back to the front entrance when he slammed hard right into something huge! He winced, pulling away as he stumbled and his hand gently touching his sore nose and forehead. His stomach did an uneasy flip and his vision distorted for a bit before it registered that it was the front doors of the New York Sanctum.

They apparated again. Strange stood behind him and Wong was off to the side, still watching in silence.

“Don’t assume you know the world and how it works,” Strange reprimanded Peter. “You think that this universe is all there is? It’s bigger and far more complex than you can possibly imagine. This universe is only one of an infinite number.”

Peter didn’t quite understand what he meant. He didn’t have the chance to ask any clarifications as Strange stepped forward, reclaiming his height advantaged once more. “And as for my involvement of your rescue, as you like to put it, I didn’t do it for Captain Rogers or to get back at Stark. I did it for your mother.”

Peter’s mind blanked. His mother? Strange knew his mother… or did he mean his aunt?

“You mean my aunt?” he asked for clarification.  

Strange flippantly gestured. “Aunt! Mother!” he waved. “What difference does it make?”

None, Peter supposed. In his case, at least. May Parker was the only mother Peter ever knew. His memories of his birth mother were rare, barely memorable. When he thought of his mother, he pictured Aunt May, holding his hand as they waited to get ice cream. Or drawing alongside him at the kitchen table. Or cheering along with Uncle Ben at his school’s math competitions. May was every bit his mother, but he always felt obligated to his birth mother to let others know she was his aunt.

Strange, however, didn’t care. He stepped closer, peering down at Peter with an intense enough gaze to make Peter feel like a small, frightened child again.

“I may be arrogant, stubborn and sardonic, but I am not cold-hearted,” Strange said in a measured tone as he stared right into Peter. “When May Parker came in with a battered face, blood on her clothes and hands, and crying—no,  _begging_ —someone to save her child, I did.

“There was no political strategy or secret agenda in rescuing you from the Negative Zone,” Strange went on. “I simply did."

Strange held Peter’s gaze a little longer, continuing in his serious tone. “Now, I shall reiterate again—I will not participate in a political hissy-fit over something mundane when there are true forces of evil threatening reality,” he said to Peter, backing away toward the stairs once more. “And I highly advise you stay out of it for your own sake!”

That wasn't an option for Peter. It stopped being an option for him the moment Deadpool captured him. The moment Mr. Stark held him prisoner. The moment Captain America forbade him from leaving the tunnels. He became part of the dire situation he wanted to stop. He may have started off as a pawn, but he learned. He became stronger. He was no longer a pawn on anyone’s chessboard. He was a knight now, ready to balance the board.

Peter prepared to leave when a deep rumbling moved through the Sanctum. His spider-sense prickled and rang out a loud warning in Peter’s head. He searched the Sanctum, eyes roaming over the area to find the reason for the sudden, thunderous sensation. He looked back to Dr. Strange and Wong, wondering if their magical powers felt it.

Strange’s forelock of hair blew gently along his forehead, waving at Peter.

“Say, um, Doc,” Peter started, waving a hand in direction to the wizard’s hair, “you wouldn’t happen to be moving your hair, would you?”

Dr. Strange rolled his eyes up to where his curl continued to gently wave. “Not at the moment, no.”

Brows scrunched together, Peter snapped his head up and saw a broken window high above the foyer. The breeze began to increase in speed, turning into a squall that showered leaves and dust right into the middle of the sanctum. Peter then heard new sounds. Voices and screams of people in the streets, car alarms blaring in warning.

Peter’s heart seized in terror, but he stood his ground as he approached the front doors again. Dr. Strange strode ahead of him, but at his touch, the door crashed wide open with a wave of wind and debris going passed them.

Dozens of people dashed up the streets, fear etched in their faces as they fled for their lives from what appeared to be a tornado in the middle of the Village. Peter walked down the steps, coming to a stand on the street as Dr. Strange and Wong followed him. Dust, papers and even cars lifted and flew through the air, obstructing the normally docile street and adding to the already chaotic scene.

What the hell was going on?

A car crashed into a lamppost and a woman let out an ear-splitting scream as she was thrown from the impact. Peter rushed through the throng of stampeding people to reach the woman.

“Hey! Hey! Are you okay, lady?” Peter asked as knelt beside the fallen woman. “Come on—here! You gotta get out of here.”

But then another car came hurdling right at them. The woman yelled and covered her face, not wishing to see her death coming. The car bulleted right at him, plans to crush them to death. Peter steeled himself and snatched the nose of the car easy, holding it up and away from the petrified woman.

Her green eyes rounded large at him.

Peter, with ease, dumped the car on top of the one next to them. “Here!” Peter lifted the woman to her feet. “Go! Run!”

The woman didn’t need telling twice. She bolted, joining in the masses that ran away while Peter, Dr. Strange and Wong confronted the pandemonium that raged around them.

“Wong?” came Dr. Strange’s deep voice to his partner.

Wong appeared at the sorcerer’s side.

“We have unwanted visitors."

Peter followed Dr. Strange’s gaze and stopped in his tracks as the source of the mayhem was revealed. Hovering high above the buildings around them was a ring-shaped spaceship, spinning vertically as it lowered further down to Manhattan. Peter had never seen anything like it. Not even at Mr. Stark’s Compound, which meant one thing.

Trouble.


	24. Children of Thanos

The winds kicked up a notch, brutally tearing up the streets in New York City. Peter used his adhesives and strength to keep himself from being flown away. He stayed behind an abandoned car, thinking of what to do next when Dr. Strange boldly strode down the center of the street.

The sorcerer lifted his hands in the direction of the intruding spaceship and conjured mystic bands of light around his wrists. He chanted underneath his breath before a combustion of magic encased the spaceship in its own bubble. The heavy winds stopped and the detritus floated to the ground as an eerie silence settled.

Peter slowly poked his head out from behind the car, looking up at Dr. Strange. The wizard lowered his arms and, as if knowing Peter was staring, turned back to him and winked. Peter had to admit he was impressed. The wizard knew more than performing simply vanishing acts.

He moved out to the street, joining Strange as well as Wong. Peter craned his head back, looking bemused by the sudden appearance of the spaceship. What was it doing here? Who arrived? Was it Thor?

Peter found himself being tugged backwards. "Stay behind me," Strange ordered.

Peter frowned, but he obeyed Strange's command, choosing to stay slightly behind the wizard as they approached the spaceship. Peter's senses tingled, his hairs spiked up along his arms and his heartrate steadily raced faster as they inched closer to the ship.

A beam of energy descended, meeting the ground a few yards away from them. Strange struck out his hand, blocking Peter. The blue light faded and two figures stood at the center. One slender and the other an enormous troll.

Peter sized up the two strangers as best as he could, but he had no answers or explanation. They didn't look like the Chitauri that attacked New York nor do they look anything like Thor. These were new aliens from space. He side-glanced to Strange and Wong. They looked stumped as well.

The slender one that reminded Peter of Squidward from SpongeBob SquarePants. His flat, elongated face had sunken eyes and wide lips that stretched across his mouth in a smug, cocky smile. Tufts of white hair swept down the back of his head, leaving the top bald and shiny off his blue-green grey skin. He wore tight black robes, trimmed in gold, and dark pants with heavy boots. Only his ugly face and hands visible.

"Hear me, and rejoice," declared Squidward in an unnervingly soothing voice that was meant to be comforting, but sounded threatening. It made the hairs on Peter's arm prickle up. "You are about to die at the hands of the Children of Thanos."

That's probably why Peter thought it sounded threatening. He  _was_  threatening them. And the alien did it with a smile. Quite a morbid smile too.

The troll's huge frame dominated above them, deadly techno-hammer gripped in his hands as he snarled in their direction, his scaly skin and bone-ridged head striking fear into Peter's body.

Squidward continued his preaching. "Be thankful that your meaningless lives are now com—"

"I'm sorry!" Peter interrupted, raising his hand, but then quickly dropped it in embarrassment. Only a child would raise a hand to interrupt an alien's death threat. And only an idiot fool like him would interrupt a death threat. "Sorry, but… we are kind of in our own crisis at the moment. Can you just… go away? Have Scotty beam you back up?"

Squidward looked repulsed by Peter's interruption. Dismissing Peter completely, he turned to Strange. His diminutive eyes narrowed on the necklace around Strange's neck. Peter sensed a pulse and a hum of energy coming from the center of the necklace.

"Stonekeeper," Squidward addressed the wizard, who arched an eyebrow at the alien's knowledge of him. "Does this chattering animal speak for you?"

"Chattering an—" Peter huffed, but Strange cut him off.

"Certainly not," Strange responded, stepping forward, keeping himself in front of Peter to block him entirely from sight. "I speak for myself."

Strange made a funny gestured with his hands again and the mystic bands of light returned around his wrists, producing two protective mandalas. "You're trespassing in this city and on this planet."

Wong stepped up too, his hands also glowing in the same light show as Strange.

And Peter, left standing behind the two wizards, stood on his tip-toes to get a better look. Was this what Strange warned? Was this what Mr. Stark feared? Whatever these two aliens came from, Peter knew they didn't belong on Earth.

The aliens showed no interest in departing. He stayed in position, watching like they were pathetic toddlers threatening them with paper swords.

Still smarting from the alien's "chattering animal" snide, Peter yelled over Strange's and Wong's head to the ugly alien. "He means get lost, Squidward!"

The slender alien sighed in exasperation and waved his thin hand in their direction. "He exhausts me," he said to his friend.

The troll answered his companion's gesture in a series of unintelligible grunts and growls. He brought up his weapon into a battle sense.

Peter's heart plummeted.

"Bring me the Stone," Squidward commanded.

The troll slammed his massive hammer into the pavement, cracking it like the street was made out of glass rather than asphalt.

Strange looked over his shoulder at Peter. "Go!" he ordered, but Peter shook his head. "Now!"

Peter didn't budge, but rather, he readied for battle. Strange shot him a pointed look that combined irritation and indignation. Peter didn't give a damn though. He's fought similar monsters at the Compound. He trained and trained, day and night, and competed in combat scenarios with sentinels and others who were probably just as strong as this troll.

Strange said that there were bigger threats looming over the world. If this was one of them, Peter was going to participate in order to ensure bad things happened a little less on Earth when he was around. And, admittedly, to get Strange to help fix the situation at home once this major threat was done.

Peter wasn't worried about the confrontation. There were only two aliens and three of them. Peter faced worse odds.

Strange didn't know that. He whipped his arm in a circle and a fiery portal opened behind Peter. "Safe travels," the wizard advised, still collected and cool before he flicked a hand at Peter.

Before Peter could protest, he found himself falling backwards, smack in the middle of Washington Square Park. He landed unceremoniously on the grass, his surprise visit shocking visitors. The portal was still open above him and Peter scrambled up quickly to jump back through only to be thrown off guard when the troll plowed right through.

That scared a whole lot of people.

As people dashed out of the park in terror, Peter scuttled backwards and dodging the troll's swinging hammer. He doubted Strange meant for the troll to get passed them, which meant Peter was left on his own to handle this particular beast. That was fine. Peter could hold his own.

The troll swung its hammer, the blunt end disconnecting, but attached by a chain to the troll's arm, propelled right at Peter. He caught it, with both hands, with relative ease, much to the troll's shock and indignation.

"Hey, ugly," Peter nodded at the troll. "What's your problem? Didn't get the girl?"

The troll snarled, which Peter took it as an affirmative. "Tough luck, man," he quipped before he used his strength to flip the troll over him, thumping the monster right onto its back. "But that doesn't give you the right to terrorize people."

He knew better to not taunt the massive troll with a hammer for an arm. Peter didn't know why he always had to make light of this madness. Why he needed to joke in a situation that could end his life if struck just right. It was baffling to him, but it also felt relaxing. His life up to this point was stressful, complicated and dangerous. Nothing was easy. Nothing was fair. Maybe with just a hint of humor, he could survive this new battle.

After all, his old psychiatrist said humor was one way to cope when faced with stressful situations. And Peter would definitely label this as stressful.

The troll recovered quickly and flung his hammer at every spot Peter stood. Peter dodged, swiftly, his feet easily sliding from left to right to avoid being hammered into the ground. He leapt out, over the chain, and landed back on his feet to give a powerful kick to the troll's side. The troll fell and rolled, but not far. Not enough to give Peter a breather.

The battle raged on as sirens filled in the gaps of Peter's heavy breathing and the troll's snarls. People screaming and shouting, but Peter ignored all those distracting sounds to focus. He came to realize the troll had a thick skin and heavy armor that kept it from being hurt. Peter, who had nothing but his clothes, knew he couldn't keep going.

Peter had fought against brute strength before, but this troll wasn't as stupid as it appeared. There was some cunning behind those grunts and snarls, and Peter didn't want to waste any more time with the troll. Sooner or later, a mistake was going to be made and he wouldn't have his web-shooters to help him.

And that mistake came. As Peter stopped the hammer from descending upon him, the troll took its free claw to wrap around his exposed chest. The troll lifted Peter off his feet and hurled him across the park, where Peter plowed through a railing and flipped over a bench.

He groaned as pain pulsed along his back. That hurt.

Peter bounced back up, remembering the rampaging troll. Up on his feet, he was met with a hard whack of the hammer at his chest. The troll landed a massive blow and, once again, Peter flew up into the air. He crashed on the grass, viciously rolling right into a tree trunk.

Oh… that was going to leave a serious bruise, Peter groaned inwardly. He was sprawled on the ground, his breathing haggard through the pain from his chest. He tried to get up, but he ached. His vulnerability leaving him prime for death.

Already, Peter heard the thunderous stomps of troll coming up to him. He heard the battle cry and wind rushing as it ready to slam the hammer down on Peter.

Peter looked up, watching the hammer come down at him. Too disoriented and chest squeezing from his bruised ribs, Peter meagerly lifted his hands up as his only defense to save himself.

The hammer descended. Peter braced for impact.

The hammer's direction was diverted only by a sharp, blinding blast. It took out the troll, shooting it straight into a stone fountain yards away from where Peter laid incapacitated and disoriented by the sudden flash of power.

Peter blinked in surprise until the sound of metal and blasters drew louder. Iron Man.

"Mr. Stark!" Peter cried, in both relief and shock at the sudden appearance of Iron Man. He scrambled back to his feet, eyeing the red and gold suit hoovering a few feet above him. "Where did you come from?"

"From the Tower," Mr. Stark snipped, drawing out his blaster. "The real question is where did  _you_  come from?"

For a split second, Peter thought Mr. Stark was going to shoot him. But Mr. Stark wasn't aiming it at  _him_. "Duck!" Iron Man ordered.

Peter did and the blaster shot right over his head and barreled into the chest of the gigantic troll, sending it right back into the water, waves splashing over the fountain and onto the sidewalk. Peter breathed deep, despite the ache along his ribcage. Definitely bruised and, hopefully, not broken.

Iron Man joined up with him, landing right beside Peter. "Okay—so how did you two meet?" he intoned, gesturing between the recovering troll and Peter.

"Well, okay, so him and Squidward came down on this floating donut ship from space and… and, they're after a wizard's necklace," Peter quickly filled in Mr. Stark the problem at hand. "So—um, we gotta stop them."

Mr. Stark was quiet for only a second. "You need better friends," he muttered, before turning back to the troll. "All right, listen up. If you wanna stay alive, stick with me. Do what I say."

Peter could do that. If it meant stopping the aliens from getting whatever it was Dr. Strange was protecting, he'd follow Mr. Stark's lead until it was no longer necessary. He had no interest in being dropped back in the Hole again.

"You distract the big guy and I'll take him down," Mr. Stark directed. "Get him to look up. He has no protection around his neck."

Peter noticed that too, but it was hard to get there with the troll's metal claw and hammer wreaking havoc.

The troll got out of the fountain and was pissed. He snarled and roared, charging right for them. "Alright, kid," Mr. Stark said as he powered up his new Iron Man suit. "Let's go."

Peter swung up, using acrobatic skills and strength to flip over the troll. It got the troll to look up and Iron Man shot another blast at the giant. It only hindered its charge, but certainly aggravated the troll into a vicious frenzy. It swiped for Mr. Stark with its hammer, forcing Mr. Stark to jet up and away. The troll and Iron Man continued to battle, with Iron Man blocking blow after blow with a new formed out of what Peter believed to be nanites in his suit. Iron Man continued to blast the troll, interrupting the troll's attempts to kill him. But it wasn't enough. Mr. Stark's shield only held the troll off for so long. The man needed assistance.

Peter may not have a suit or his web-shooters, but as he told Captain Rogers, he wasn't useless. He looked around for something to use, spying a light pole nearby. He ripped it off the ground and javelined straight at the troll to get him away from Mr. Stark.

That did it. The pole ripped skin along the troll's arm. The troll stumbled, arm dropping a bit as it howled.

Peter's smile only lasted for a little bit before the claw slammed right into him, squeezing Peter's bones into his organs. This was not good.

Letting out a cruel snarl, the troll thrashed Peter, shaking him well before releasing Peter high into the sky like a rag doll. Peter soared to the clouds, skyrocketing past treetops and skyscrapers. And then, he stopped. His body arched and he found himself plummeting to the ground.

Peter tumbled in the air, arms flailing as he remembered he didn't have his web-shooters to catch him. "No, no, no, no, no," he freaked as he clawed at the air in hopes to catch something. "Not good. Not good."

Rockets resounded around him and he landed into the metal arms of Iron Man. "Hold on," Mr. Stark ordered and Peter glued himself to the suit as Mr. Stark shot downward back to the fighting ground.

Iron Man's arms retracted and a missile from each arm came out. Peter's eyes went wide. He was holding missiles in his arms!

Mr. Stark fired. The missiles shot off and slammed right into the troll, knocking it onto its back. Peter slid off of Mr. Stark, happy to have his feet touching the grass again.

"Thanks," Peter said to the iron mask.

"Don't thank me yet," Mr. Stark replied, watching the troll groan, but hobble up. "He's not dead."

No. The troll was alive and jumped back up with an ugly snort and growl. Its claw was ready to pull out their hearts and the hammer ready to puncture it repeatedly. Peter swallowed unhappily at the image of his impending death.

Just as the troll rushed at them both, a red cloak sailed right between them, away from all the danger and straight into the city. While it surprised Mr. Stark to see a flying cloak coming between them and the troll, Peter recognized the cloak.

Dr. Strange!

He was in trouble.

Peter ran to go after him, but something caught his arm.

"Peter! What are you doing?" asked Mr. Stark as the troll stormed up to them.

"I gotta save him!" Peter yelled and he ripped his arm out of Mr. Stark's grasp and gave chase after the red cloak.

He heard Mr. Stark call for him, but Peter needed to save Dr. Strange. The sorcerer looked knocked out, flying alone on his cloak as that Squidward alien chased after him. It was difficult to keep up. With him being on foot and jumping from car to car after them, he was slightly behind on the race to get Dr. Strange.

Squidward manipulated the street signs and lamppost to trap the red cloak, pin it down and take Dr. Strange's unconscious body away. It didn't help Peter in the slightest when the alien tried to throw billboards and cars at him either. Peter zig-zagged as best he could as Squidward kept dismissively hurtling cars, billboards and anything else to prevent his pursuit for Strange.

They really wanted that necklace. "Not cool!" Peter cried out as he flipped over a bike that was thrown at him.

To Peter's horror, the alien got a street lamp to pinch the cloak, ripping it away from Dr. Strange's body. It tried to go back and rescue its falling master. Squidward was delighted and went to intercept the unconscious wizard. Desperate to stop it, Peter doubled his effort. He grabbed hold of an abandoned car. With all his might, he threw it straight at the alien.

Too distracted by Dr. Strange, Squidward didn't have time to stop the oncoming car. It smacked right into the alien's head, knocking him down from his floating perch.

Peter launched himself up and caught Dr. Strange before the man hit the pavement. "Gotcha!" he cheered, taking hold of a lamppost to swing around in a different direction.

His arm jerked. A bright blue beam snared Dr. Strange in its glow, drawing the unconscious wizard up to the donut ship.

"No, no, no, no!" Peter panicked, tightening his grip on the pole and pulled Dr. Strange back to him, away from the tractor beam. "Stop it! Don't—"

The pole gave way, ripped right up from its rooted position on the sidewalk. Peter screamed, but it was drowned out by the beam of light shooting him and Dr. Strange up to the donut ship.

_No. No. No. No!_  He didn't want to go to outer space. This wasn't part of the plan! He only wanted to pass on his thanks to Dr. Strange and convince him to assist in freeing everyone else. Not go on a Star Wars adventure!

Worse part was he couldn't seem to get himself out of the trajectory to the spaceship. Trapped and being sucked up from Earth, Peter clutched onto Dr. Strange's arm. What to do… what to do! He should have stayed with Aunt May. Should have stayed underground, in the tunnels. Safe and sound.

Dr. Strange was absorbed in the spaceship and the minute his body was inside, the light vanished. The force that gripped and sucked them up from the ground released its hold on everything else. Including Peter.

He plunged.

Screams were drowned by the rushing wind. It filled his ears and murmured of his impending demise. Why was he always falling?

But a streak of red came to his rescue. Dr. Strange's red cloak swooped him up and carried him back to the donut spaceship. Peter grabbed hold of the spaceship, crawling up to find an entry small enough to squeeze himself through to the other side where Dr. Strange was trapped. Maybe even being tortured.

He had to save Strange.

Every movement hurt though. It was hard. He was getting tired, cold and light-headed. His ear kept ringing from the sounds of the spaceship's engine as it lifted away from New York. Even breathing was hard. Peter sucked in as much air as possible. "I can't breathe…" he choked out. "Why can't I…"

He pressed close to the spaceship, looking back down to see how far away from New York they were. Very far away. The spaceship broke into the stratosphere.

"Yeah… that makes sense," he murmured to himself.

Air depleted from his lungs quicker and quicker. Everything was heavy. He dropped his head against the metal paneling, as the donut ship kept spinning and launching itself into outer space.

Peter could see the stars. There were more than he ever saw on Earth. Or maybe it was his vision. Things blurred and burned. He couldn't breathe. No matter how deep his breaths, he couldn't inhale anything. Suffocating in space. On a donut ship. Not his way to go.

In that moment, as his eye lids drooped to a close, he thought of his aunt. He hoped she was okay and not afraid. Not like him.

His fingers loosened. His grip dissipated. Peter slipped off, dropping once more, back into Earth's atmosphere.

Peter fell for only two seconds before an object slammed into him. Was it the spaceship? Did he hit it on his way down?

No. It was something else. Something crawling all around him, covering him inch by inch. It took over his chest. Then his arms and legs. And then straight over his head.

He inhaled. Air flowed right into him. Oxygen filled within him, bringing him back to life and to the realization that he was banging around on the spaceship's deck.

He tried his best to regain footing, somersaulting all over the place until he finally found a smooth surface to grip. He steadied himself, slowly rising to his feet in awe as he took in the stars, planets and black abyss. Wait… how could he do this?

Peter glanced at his hands. They were covered in a metallic-like material, perfectly fitted to his whole body. He traced it all the way up his arm to his chest, where a gigantic spider-logo proudly gleamed.

Holy—a Spider-man suit!

The sound of thrusters interrupted his admiration of the new suit. Iron Man flew next to him.

"Mr. Stark!" Peter exclaimed, surprisingly happy to see Iron Man flying beside him. "It smells like a new car in here!"

Iron Man's glowing blue eyes looked down at him. "Happy trails, kid," he said. "FRIDAY? Send him home."

FRIDAY, Mr. Stark's faithful AI, answered swiftly. "Yep!"

Something popped out behind him. Peter glanced over his shoulder in time to see a vast parachute unfold behind him. "Wait—"

But, Peter didn't get the chance. The parachute shot him right off the spaceship, sending him around and right back to Earth.

Immediately, Peter flailed his arms and legs out. No! He needed to save Dr. Strange! He can't go back to Earth yet!

Oddly, it's like the suit understood what he was trying to do. It shot a web out, latching right onto the end of the spaceship. The parachute tugged, warring it with the web to let Peter go. Peter held on though, refusing to detach himself from the lifeline to the spaceship. He reached his other hand out and over his back, looking for the latch to free himself from the parachute's grasp.

He found it and tugged. The parachute flapped, ungracefully, back down, billowing in violent ruffles as it fanned, leaving Peter holding onto a single web-string.

"Oh, my God," Peter panted as he held onto the web for dear life.

Deep breaths, he towed himself up the web, returning to the spaceship. He noticed an emergency doors prepping to close and scurried into the opening. He climbed into it just as the doors slowly closed on him.

Peter took one last look at Earth. "I should have stayed in the tunnels."


	25. Meet Ups and Team Ups

Peter crawled out of his stowaway, sticking to the walls and ceilings of the spaceship as he followed the sounds of voices and muffled cries. Careful to not make a sound, he maneuvered

That was where he saw Iron Man, standing next to Strange's cloak. "What the hell are you?" he quipped to the cloak. "Some kind of magic carpet?"

“Actually..." Peter flipped down to a landing right behind Mr. Stark. "It's the Cloak of Levitation.”

Iron Man wheeled around, surprise flashing across his face before it shifted into disbelief and then finally settling on vexation. "What the hell—"

“I know what—”

Iron Man cut him off. "You shouldn't be here," he said, eyes flared. "I specifically sent you home!"

"Yeah, you tried, which isn't your call by the way," Peter said, which only angered Mr. Stark as red crept up into the man's cheeks. 

“Don't start, kid," Mr. Stark warned. "I don't want to hear it.”

"Great, because I'm not really here to talk to you," Peter said as he went to side-step around Iron Man. 

Naturally, Iron Man blocked him. "What do you think you’re doing?"

“Going to save Dr. Strange.”

"No... you're going to go back to whatever hiding place you were in and  _stay there_ ," Iron Man's angry face drew closer to Peter. "Leave it to the professional here."

Peter stood straighter, trying to appear taller. "I'm gonna help," he argued. "I'm here in space already—”

"Yeah!" Mr. Stark snapped that it sent little jolts right into Peter’s gut. “Right where I didn’t want you to be.” He took another big step. Right in front of Peter. Directly in front so that Peter couldn't avert his gaze to anywhere else but to Mr. Stark. “This isn’t another simulation. Or a practice round where you can get up and start all over. This is a one-way ticket.”

Peter understood. He knew the risk. The dangers. That’s why he was on the spaceship. To stop the bad things from happening.

Mr. Stark didn’t think he did. “You hear me?” Mr. Stark grilled. “Don’t pretend you thought this through.”

But Peter did. “No, I did think this through."

That only infuriated Mr. Stark more. “You could not have possibly thought this through.”

“I did," Peter insisted. "I did think this through.”

“No, you didn’t. You couldn’t—”

Peter got tired of the dismissal. It was his turn to bristle and flare in frustration. “Then what was the point in keeping me a prisoner at the Compound? Doing all that training and taking all that abuse?” he challenged Iron Man. He swore he saw a flutter of guilt come across Mr. Stark's face. “For what? So that I could sit around home and do nothing. Hide?

“I can’t do that. I never could do that,” Peter said, defiantly to Iron Man. “I’m Spider-Man. I don’t run or look the other way when others are in trouble.”

Mr. Stark looked gobsmacked by his declaration. And then a bit agitated, but he said nothing to counter Peter’s claims. After all, Mr. Stark told him on their first meeting that he needed enhanced people like Peter for a bigger battle. This was it.

“Fine,” Mr. Stark breathed, shaken. “Come on. We got a situation.”

Peter followed Mr. Stark to the ledge. Iron Man pointed at something below. “See your friend down there?” he said. “He’s in trouble.”

Peter saw Dr. Strange. The wizard was awake, floating up or maybe being held up by what appeared to be glass needles that stabbed him in every part of his body. Peter smelled Dr. Strange’s sweat from where he crouched overhead and heard the man’s fast but determined breaths. He was being tortured. For that necklace again. Must have one hell of a value to it. 

Mr. Stark looked from Dr. Strange’s hostage situation to Peter. “What’s your plan? Go.”

Peter crouched low, his thoughts shuffling through different scenarios that he was taught at the Compound. But, none of them fit the situation. None of it prepared him for this moment. He hummed, branching out from that military knowledge, when the idea hit him.

“Um… Okay, okay, okay,” Peter said, coming up to his feet as he pieced his final thoughts together. “Did you ever see this really old movie,  _Aliens?”_

* * *

Thousands of glass shards were mere inches away from Strange's entire body. Peter wanted to flinch just even looking at it, but Strange never moved an inch. He was focused and remained perfectly still as Squidward continued to rattle off threats and insults. That wizard was far braver than Peter. 

“In all the time I've served Thanos," Peter heard Squidward brag in his melodic, nauseating voice, "I have never failed him.”

First for everything, Peter thought as he crept into position, waiting for Iron Man to initiate the signal. 

Peter watched as Squidward got closer, waving a hand. One shard shifted and cut sharply into Strange's cheek, drawing blood. And while Peter screamed internally, Strange made not one cry or breath. The wizard remained resilient, which annoyed the alien. He flicked his hand again and the rest of the shards spiked into Strange's body. 

"Give me the stone!" the alien spat at Strange.

Strange kept his vow of silence. Not at all blinking or responding to the alien's demand. Peter was certainly impressed and horrified at once. Where was Mr. Stark? He better hurry.

The alien straightened, smiling. "Painful, aren't they?" he mused. "They were originally designed for microsurgery," He paused briefly, eyes shifting, but continued, "and any one of them could end your friend's life in an instant."

Then Squidward turned, head craned up to look at Iron Man, now hovering above with laser armed and ready. 

“I gotta tell you, he's not really my friend," Mr. Stark replied. "Saving his life is more of a courtesy.”

Squidward walked forward, forgetting Strange as the glass shards continued to dig into his body. The alien's smile widened, predatory style as it raised its hands. The cargo pods on the ship rose with it. "You've saved nothing. Your powers are inconsequential compared to mine!"

Iron Man shrugged. "Yeah... but the kid's seen more movies."

That was his cue! Peter leapt up and over, landing beside Strange. The alien was confused and went to retaliate, but Mr. Stark angled himself toward the spaceship's side and fired a single missile at the hull. The explosion rocked the spaceship and tore it open. All the cargo pods flew out of the hull and into space.

With a scream of disbelief, Squidward got sucked into the freezing space. 

Chaos quickly followed with objects flying like the microsurgery needles, which thankfully freed Strange from torture. Unfortunately, that also meant Strange was being sucked out of the spaceship. 

"No, you don't!" Peter shot a web at Strange's waist to hold the man in place. 

But space was stronger. Peter found himself moving with Strange, nearly getting sucked out of the hull. "No... no..." he shrieked, wishing to stop himself from joining Squidward in death.

His wish was granted when four mechanical arachnid-looking arms extended from his back like an exoskeleton and gripped the hull's side to keep him and Strange from flying out. 

"Yes!" Peter cheered, but then became confused, looking over his back to get a better view. "Wait... what  _are_ these? And how—"

"Focus up, kid!" Iron Man called.

Right, of course. Peter shot another string of web onto the other side of the ship and pulled himself and Strange to safety. Once he and Strange were safely away from the hole, Mr. Stark stepped in to weld the hole shut, giving Peter a chance to catch his breath. The pincers from his new suit retracted and his mask moved off on its own, letting Peter breathe better as the Cloak of Levitation swooped down, checking its master. 

Peter smiled. "We did good," he said to the cloak, holding up his hand for a shake of gratitude. The cloak rose up and surprising, gave a quick pat on Peter's extended hand.

"So cool," Peter said, in awe as the cloak wrapped back on Strange's shoulders. 

Strange struggled to his feet as Mr. Stark strutted past, Iron Man suit disappearing into tiny particles that retreated into his RT centered on his chest. 

Peter gaped at the mechanics happening. "Whoa."

“Nanites," Mr. Stark winked. "Yours is made out of it too.”

Peter blinked down to his suit. That would explain the sudden responses to everything he did. It was like the suit had its own brain. Ridiculously intuitive. When did Mr. Stark even make this suit? 

He didn't get the chance to ask because Dr. Strange was moving and speaking quickly. "We need to turn this ship around!"

“Normally, most people say thanks when saved," Mr. Stark said. "And I would like a thank you. So... go ahead. I'm listening.”

“For what?" Strange spat. "Nearly blasting me into space?”

“Who just saved your ass? Me." Mr. Stark fired back, his patience thinning. "Me and the kid, which don't think I don't know who you are— _Stephen Strange,_ " Mr. Stark's eyes sharpened and heated, glowing like they were Iron Man's eyes rather than Mr. Stark's own brown irises. "And if you think I'll forget—"

“Congratulations!" Strange cut in, mockingly. "You know me. Just like I know you." He moved further up the spaceship, checking the control systems. "Now, if you want to be useful—”

“Excuse me?”

“—need to figure out how to control this ship," Strange finished. "It appears to be on autopilot. Do you know of a way to control it?”

Mr. Stark was ruffled by Strange's blunt and dismissive tone. He glared at Strange. "Well, maybe if you ask nicely, I may give it a thought."

Strange turned away from the console. "I seriously don't know how you fit your head into that helmet," he marveled. "Or how you shove it up your own ass, but this is serious. We cannot go wherever this ship is taking us."

“Why not?" Mr. Stark challenged, arms crossing his chest, postured laxed. "Afraid of what's at the end?”

“We all should.”

Peter blinked, confused, and when he and Mr. Stark shared similar puzzled expressions, Strange sighed in aghast. Strange stepped forward, hands gesturing before a light show flew above their heads. He finished some incantation and five, colorful gemstones formed out of thin air, floating in the space above them. Peter's mouth fell open again, awestruck by the display of magical powers. 

“At the dawn of the universe, the Big Bang sent six elemental crystals hurtling across the virgin universe," Strange said as the gemstones spread out from one another. "These are known as the Infinity Stones and each control an essential aspect of existence.”

Peter's eyes widened at the mystic lights. "What?"

Strange moved forward into the center and pointed to each gemstone individually, naming them. "Space. Reality. Power. Soul. Mind. And..." Strange crossed his arms in front of the necklace. The necklace moved, unwinding before it opened, revealing a glowing emerald stone inside, "Time."

Peter's hairs prickled back up again. His head scratching and his nerves flaring up as he stared at the stone. It pulsed. Peter felt the stone pulse and... it was alive. And full of power. 

Strange closed the necklace, concealing the stone. The gnawing in the back of Peter's mind rescinded too. "There's someone who is hunting for these stones," the wizard continued. "He goes by the name of Thanos. Also known as the 'Mad Titan' throughout the rest of the universe."

Mad Titan? Like a god? Peter's world kept expanding and imploding on him all at once. His eyes flickered to each stone, overwhelmed by the revelation of it all that his head spun. God—the world never felt so small now. 

Peter wavered a glance to Mr. Stark. Iron Man's face was rigid. Jaw hardened, and eyes focused on the stones. There was a touch of terror in the gaze, ghosts that chased him to the very edge they were standing upon. 

And then, the man whispered. "This is it."

Strange ended the light show, putting them all back into darkness. "It's impertinent we do not reach the end, Stark."

Mr. Stark wasn't listening to the man. Peter saw that Mr. Stark was getting further and further lost in his own mind. Arms crossed, head down in deep thought, thinking of millions of things at once and not slowing down. 

Strange was losing his patience. "Stark? Can you get us back home?" he pressured, but Mr. Stark remained unresponsive. "Stark!"

“I heard you the first time," Mr. Stark waved Strange off, annoyed by the wizard. "I'm thinking.”

“There's no need to think!" Strange rebuked. "We cannot, under any circumstances, give Thanos the Time Stone! He already has two in possession at the moment. If he collects all of them... we cannot let that happen!”

“What happens if he collects all of them?” Peter questioned, curious as to what dread Strange feared. 

Strange's face filtered from seriousness to somber as he quickly looked at Peter, taking note of his existence on the spaceship for the first time. "He will destroy life on a scale hitherto undreamed of."

Peter crinkled his face into an incredulous look. "Huh?"

“Wipe out half of the universe, kid," Mr. Stark cleared up for him before he turned back to Strange. "And really? 'hitherto undreamed of'? What? Is this a Shakespeare in Space production?”

While the two adults continued their bickering, Peter was left unattended, drenched in cold as he replayed their words in his head. Destroy half the universe? Billions of lives lost. Gone! Panic grew, taking a hold of his limbs, shaking hard. Except he wasn’t even moving. He was frozen, his mind seizing up as cruel images fluttered through and around him.

Including a picture of his aunt. Dead and alone.

Peter inhaled, sharply, eyes stinging at the cursed thought. The breaths in his chest came out broken and strained. No, he resolved, he couldn't let that happen. He won’t let that happen. Not to Aunt May. Not to anyone else.

“Are you seriously avoiding the problem at hand?” came Strange’s biting retort to Mr. Stark. “We need to redirect the ship. Return to Earth at once!”

Peter noticed Mr. Stark fell silent again. Only for a moment. "I have a better idea," he said as he pointed to the necklace. "Let's grind that stone into dust. No stone. No way to complete the set. Universe saved!"

Peter hated to agree, but Mr. Stark made a good point. Destroying the Time Stone would prevent this Thanos alien from collecting all the stones; thus, stopping the apocalypse.

Strange disagreed. "No can do," the wizard said, slowly shaking his head. "I swore an oath to protect the Time Stone with my life."

“I don't mind if you go too.”

Strange’s face twisted into repulsion. It was obvious the wizard held little respect or regard to Iron Man, and vice-versa. Unlike the rest of the world. Strange wasn’t afraid of him, and gladly shared it. “Then what are you waiting for?”

The tension in the room heightened, thickening to the point Peter sweated and wrung his hands together as his eyes bounced from Strange to Mr. Stark. His heart pounded, fear trekking up his spine and sieging against his mind. It was like watching two predators, staring down each other right before the brawl of death. Peter knew he had to do something. Anything to prevent a blow-up. Not sure what to do though, he just rushed forward. Not in the middle, but close enough to jump in break up any swinging punches.

Dr. Strange and Mr. Stark continued to stare each other down, but then Mr. Stark eyes flickered over to where Peter stood, spotting his alerted position. And then, Mr. Stark shifted, retreating back from Strange, who had a slight smile placed on his lips as he backtracked.

Mr. Stark drew a breath, dropping his forehead on his hand. “Whatever,” he grumbled, pulling away. “Point is, things change. Situations change."

“Not my oath," Strange was adamant in his resolve. "And this Stone may be the best chance we have against Thanos.”

"And it's also  _his_  best chance against us," Mr. Stark fired back. "I won't let Thanos destroy the universe!"

“Then we are in agreement.”

“I don't think we are," Mr. Stark countered. "You're willing to risk the lives of billions for what? An oath that will be meaningless if Thanos gets it?”

“He won't," Strange reiterated. "Not if we don't turn this ship around.”

“Oh—and what? Let him come to Earth? Bring his whole army down onto our planet?" Mr. Stark affronted, scoffing at the absurdity of the notion. "No thanks.”

“Then what is your suggestion?” Strange challenged.

Mr. Stark paused to propose the new idea. “We go.”

Peter's eyes narrowed, mystified by Mr. Stark's proposal. They already agreed they needed to  _go_ , but where?

He was thankful not to be the only one confused. Dr. Strange stared, eyebrows furrowing in curiosity. “Go?”

“Go straight to Thanos.”

Strange was aghast. "I don't think you quite understand what's at stake here—"

"No! It's  _you_  who doesn't understand!" Mr. Stark snapped, stepping back up to square off Strange. "Thanos has been inside my head for far too long." Peter’s heart skipped as he heard Mr. Stark’s voice become more agitated by the word. “Since he sent an army to New York, and I had to live with that knowledge and fear for over five years! I had to listen to everyone tell me that I’ve gone crazy or mad, but now—he’s back!”

Peter thought back to the first day he met Mr. Stark. Both sitting at a table in a little room, Mr. Stark telling Peter what he needed.

_“There’s a war out there. Most people don’t know it. More don’t care. Too petty to be bothered, but war has come, and Earth needs defenders.”_

This was what drove Mr. Stark. This was his motivation. This Thanos “Mad Titan” guy. God. Alien. Thing. He’s the reason Mr. Stark had been collecting enhanced people. To protect the Earth from someone wanting to destroy it completely.

Mr. Stark paced, scratching his chin as he fretted. “And I don’t know what to do! All I know is that we cannot have him come to Earth, and maybe… if we must fight him, we do it on his turf because he won’t be expecting it. It will give us an advantage.”

Strange’s eyes narrowed at Mr. Stark. “What advantage? We are flying in a spaceship billions of miles away from Earth and our allies. We have no back-up!”

Peter tipped up, holding up a single finger. “I’m back-up!”

Both men turned.

Mr. Stark looked like he was at his wits end. They both did. “No, you’re a runaway,” Mr. Stark dismissed Peter’s statement and then he redirected his attention back to Strange. “Which, by the way, reminds me that once again, this is all your fault.”

Strange cocked an eyebrow. “My fault? I’m not the idiot who’s thinking of taking on Thanos alone.”

“Not alone,” Peter tried again.

Neither men paid any attention to him. He was basically invisible.

“No, all of this is your fault,” Mr. Stark snapped at the wizard. “Thanos is coming because of that damn birthstone you wear. He’s threatening the damn galaxy with it. And, you dragged Peter into all this, nearly getting him killed! At least three times!”

Peter's eyes bulged at the accusation. No one nearly killed him except that troll. And Dr. Strange did nothing to encourage his contribution in helping them fight off Earth's intruders. Peter did that on his own. And for Mr. Stark to even  _dare_  blame the wizard for something he had no part in, especially considering everything that happened while Peter lived at the Compound, it was enough to aggravate him to confront them.

He stomped up, facing Mr. Stark. “It’s not Dr. Strange’s fault!” he interjected. “I came on my own—”

“Quiet, Pete—”

“No!” Peter shouted, making both men flinch and even the cloak swooped back in bafflement by his ferocious burst. “Both of you are being idiots! If Thanos is coming for that Stone, then we need to stop fighting and work together. Or else… we’re all dead and it will be _all_ of our faults.

“And no one _dragged_ me here,” Peter added on, looking at the two adults. “I came on my own. Running, in fact. So... can you both stop yelling at each other and actually start saving the universe?”

Mr. Stark and Dr. Strange stood in silence for a long moment. Both wore identical expressions of shock and esteem, as if suddenly Peter was someone to take notice after being ignored for too damn long. Peter was tired of it though. The fighting and constant insults between the two of them as they kept speeding on closer to meeting this Mad Titan. It was time for them to shut up and get working on a plan. For the sake of the Universe and Aunt May. 

Mr. Stark was the first to recover. “All right, kid,” he started, looking back to Strange. “I say we take the fight to him. Do you concur?”

Peter turned to Strange, watching the wizard ponder and mull over their options, weighing out the best outcome for all of them. Mr. Stark waited, ready to stand his ground if necessary, but Peter hoped it didn’t come to that.

Strange resigned. “All right, Stark,” he said. “We go to him.”

Mr. Stark smirked in victory. He walked away with a little bounce in his feet, ready to strategize the plan. However, Strange wasn’t done speaking.

“But you have to understand,” Dr. Strange addressed Mr. Stark, measured, “if it comes to saving you, or the boy, or the Time Stone, I will not hesitate to let either of you die. The fate of the universe depends on it.”

That was a sucker punch to the gut for Peter. A little over a few hours ago, the wizard confessed to saving his life from the Hole and then tried to save him from the initial attack by Squidward and the troll. Now, standing before him, and speaking in a serious, absolute tone, Dr. Strange wouldn’t hesitate to let him die.

Kind of off-putting considering they were flying out to kill a god. Or a titan. Whatever.

“Nice,” Mr. Stark patted Strange’s arm in a patronizing manner as he walked passed him. “Good, moral compass.”

And then he walked over to Peter. “You need better friends,” Mr. Stark remarked, glancing over at Strange, who eyed them equivocally, before moving to look out the viewport on the spaceship’s bridge. Mr. Stark turned back to Peter. “Any who… we need to talk.”

Peter shook his head. He had no interest in speaking with Mr. Stark alone. “I’d rather we didn’t.”

“Please,” Mr. Stark implored, lines of stress growing deeper into the man's face. “I owe you an explanation.”

“An explanation?” Peter bit out. “I’m owed an apology!”

When Mr. Stark tried to place his hand on Peter’s shoulder, the boy backed away. “You had nine months to explain,” he told Mr. Stark. “You didn’t. You lied. Repeatedly.”

Mr. Stark took two cautious steps forward, attempting to close the gap between them. “Peter, I didn’t want to lie—”

Peter took a large step backwards. “Didn’t keep you from doing it,” he pointed out. “And when I caught you lying, you tried to kill me—”

“I didn’t—”

“—and when that failed, you tossed me into the Hole,” Peter listed on, “Letting me rot while you hunted down my aunt. The only family I have left!”

“You’re being a bit melodramatic,” Mr. Stark quickly inserted.

Peter stopped his movement. Fists clenched at his sides. “Melodramatic?” he gritted, unnerved by the man's dismissal. His mind whirled with anger. “That’s what happened! That’s exactly what happened!”

“If you stop and listen to me, I can explain—”

“I DON’T WANT AN EXPLANATION!”

His voice rang throughout the hull of the spaceship, echoing long after too. A hole in his chest cracked, widening as the anger festering underneath boiled up to the top. All those old emotional wounds reopened, spilling out, overflowing, dragging him down. It was like drowning, suffocating him and twisting his heart into a mangled knot. Everything hurt. Everything burned. 

Peter didn’t dare look elsewhere, but he knew Strange and the cloak turned in their direction. Probably wondering if they needed to interfere. Probably deciding it was none of their business. After all, it’s not the fate of the galaxy type of danger. And it became obvious mere minutes ago that Strange held no interest or regard for Peter's well-being.

Peter was just a stupid boy letting his emotions getting the better of himself.

Mr. Stark’s shoulders sagged, head tilting a little to one side as he looked at Peter. His face seemingly softened, contrite. Peter didn't care though. He merely shook his head. He didn't want pity. Not from Mr. Stark. Not from him. 

Mr. Stark breathed deep, rolling in his lips with thought. "Okay, okay," he murmured. "You're right. If anyone ever deserves one, it would be you."

Peter scrunched his face in the man's direction, wondering what he meant. He treaded carefully, knowing better than to get wrapped up in Mr. Stark's persona.

The man inched closer, but cautious as if he was afraid to scare Peter away. Peter wasn't afraid of the man. Not anymore.

Mr. Stark sniffed, taking another big gulp of air before exhausting. "I'm sorry," he began, his eyes raised to meet Peter's, latching on as if to ensure Peter's focus was all on him. "I'm sorry that I hurt you. It was not my intention. At all."

Peter wondered if his apology was a facade. Another lie. Meaningless. Iron Man's attempt to break down the barrier between them, make him feel safe and wanted. Like the man did at the Compound. 

When Peter didn't respond to him, Mr. Stark continued, giving him a meaningful look. The softness remained, but it was pushed with urgency. "Whatever you're thinking... whatever insults or names you want to throw at me. Maybe even a punch? I don't know. I probably deserve worse," he admitted, "but right now, I am begging you to listen. Follow my lead and I promise you'll make it through this."

In a quick blink, eyebrows furrowing together, Peter pushed his shoulders back, his spine erect. He returned his own stare, speaking with a leveled voice. "I'm not your soldier."

Mr. Stark simply sighed with a nod, a quiet fondness and sympathy peeking out from his dark eyes. "Yeah, I know."

He walked passed Peter, patting his back twice before moving on to check out the rest of the spaceship to learn how to use it. Or to find anything that may be useful in the upcoming fight. Probably both.

Peter stood still, like a deer in headlights. Once Mr. Stark was out of earshot, he released a ragged breath, unaware he held it in for so long. He absentmindedly rubbed his chest, taking slow breaths. Rising and falling in a cycle of rebellion and hurt. He hadn’t expected to get this emotional. He shouldn’t even be feeling hurt! 

“You okay?”

Peter whipped his head up. Dr. Strange appeared at his elbow, drawing a concerned look down upon him. Peter quickly rubbed his face to erase any traces of his emotional decay. "Yeah... yeah, I'm fine."

The cloak's end whipped up, dabbing at his cheek. Its gentle touch wiping whatever embarrassing mark away from Peter's face. 

Dr. Strange frowned at his cloak. "Stop that.”

“No... i-it's okay," Peter turned to the cloak, appreciative. "Thanks.”

The cloak lifted up from Strange's shoulder and settled right on his, wrapping around him like a comforter. It was surprisingly warm. Peter didn't even realize he was cold until the cloak draped itself around his shoulders.

Dr. Strange tsked. "Playing favorites, now?" he said to the cloak, but he didn't seem offended at all by the cloak's abandonment. The wizard tilted his head, staring back at Peter with those cutting eyes. "Are you able to work alongside Stark?”

“What?”

Strange’s eyes squinted in deep concern. “I’m aware of your history,” he bluntly remarked, “and your sudden outburst gave me pause. Are you able to cooperate with the man? If we are to go up against Thanos, we all need to work together. Can you do that?”

Could he? He looked back over, seeing Mr. Stark's back as he went deeper into the spaceship. The man hurt him. Lied to him. Tricked him. Most people wouldn't ever trust the person ever again, let alone work with them. Fool me once. Fool me twice. Peter's pride wanted to shun Mr. Stark, ignore the man entirely, but it would be fatal to do so. And Peter knew this. He didn't have the hero experience Mr. Stark had. He was simply a friendly, neighborhood Spider-man before he met Mr. Stark. This was his first ever big mission. Avenger-big mission. He couldn't be distracted.

Peter nodded. “Yeah, yeah,” he impressed, brushing his eyes clean. “No—it won’t be a problem. Not for me anyway.”

“Good,” Strange said, content. “Because if we all want to come out alive, we need to stay united.”

“Yeah, no, I…” Peter fully turned to Strange, standing up straighter and lifting his chin up. His shoulders squared and eyes forward on the wizard, ready for duty. “I won’t let you down.”

Strange disputably lifted a brow. “You shouldn’t let yourself down,” he said, backing away toward the bridge once more.

Peter saw the cloak stayed on his shoulder. “Wait! Doc! Your cloak—”

“Appears to favor you at the moment,” Dr. Strange waved an odd gesture, granting an obscured permission for the cloak. “As I said before, it tends to have a mind of its own.”

Strange left and Peter remained hugged by the cloak. He looked down at the red fabric, watching it flow and move and rub against his skin in soothing comfort. The child within him appreciated the cloak’s comfort, despite his previous attempt to act like the man he wanted to be seen. Far away from home, deep in space, with two individuals he hardly knew or trusted, it was nice to have someone (or something) simply be there to hug him as they propelled to the dangerous unknown.

Peter smiled as he gently pulled the cloak to him.

“This is nice,” he murmured to the cloak. “Thanks.”

The cloak carefully tightened in assurance, and Peter held onto the Cloak of Levitation as Strange stood up front at the viewport, watching the elongated stars rush passed them, and Mr. Stark rummaging behind him, searching for anything and everything that may be helpful in the upcoming battle.

It’ll be okay, Peter thought. It will all work out.  

It had to.

* * *

Peter sat alone. The Cloak of Levitation long left him to rejoin his master once Mr. Stark returned from wherever he was on the spaceship. He and Dr. Strange stayed up front of the spaceship, huddled by the console to discuss strategies and figure out how to control the steering of the spaceship. Neither of them tried to talk to him, which Peter was fine with. He preferred being alone at the moment. Gave him time to reflect on his life and, hopefully, his future. This battle was the biggest battle in the history of time itself. If they succeed and stop Thanos, they save the universe from the worst. If they fail, Peter will never see his aunt again. Won’t be able to apologize for his defiance, for hurting her, for scaring her. For ruining her life.

He hoped she would forgive him. He hoped she would be safe. Protected while he was away, off to fight against the most dangerous being in the galaxy.

Time to be brave, as his Uncle Ben said. Peter needed to be brave. He had to.

There was a shift in speed of the spaceship. Peter looked up and back to the viewport. He noticed the speed changed. Rather than slowing down to land on the incoming planet, it appeared to be careening straight to it.

“Hey, um, what’s going on?” Peter piped up as he hurried over to the front.

Dr. Strange studied the impending planet. “I think we’re here,” he said as the ship closed in on the planet at an alarming rate.

“I don’t think this donut has a self-park function,” Mr. Stark hurried over to Peter and before Peter could protest, pushed him toward one of the steering mechanisms. “Get your hand inside the steering gimbal. Close those around it. You understand?” Mr. Stark set himself up in the other one. “Peter? Do you understand?”

“Yep, got it,” Peter said as he did as was instructed.

“Okay—this was meant for one big guy, so we gotta move at the same time.”

Peter knew Mr. Stark didn’t mean to sound like a mentor, but it irked Peter nonetheless that Mr. Stark kept up the charade that Peter was his apprentice and needed his guidance on what to do next. Peter wasn’t an idiot. He figured it out on his own.

“Okay, okay,” Peter said “Ready.”

He looked straight back to the viewport, over Dr. Strange’s shoulder to see the spaceship pitched and sped directly to the giant, star-like structures that peppered the planet’s landscape. What the hell were those?

“We might wanna turn,” Mr. Stark called out, exigently. “Turn! Turn! Turn!”

Peter activated his suit, using his mass strength and the extra strength of the suit to pilot the spaceship into landing. It wasn’t working! Nothing happened. And Peter’s lungs froze, all air sucked out, and his heart dropped out of him as he watched in horror of their imminent crash.

Dr. Strange stepped forward and conjured a golden force field around them as the spaceship collided onto the planet. It bounced them around, jerking them all off their feet as the spaceship snapped in two, both falling to the planet’s surface.

Peter let out a fright as he abandoned the gimbal to strap himself to safety. Before he could jump, Iron Man snatched his wrist, pulling him away and forcing him underneath his full Iron Man suit as the ship made impact. There was a loud banging noise and rings that shrilled around them. The spaceship spun out of control, jostling their bodies in every direction, but Mr. Stark never let Peter go. The man held him tight, using his Iron Man suit to shield him as wires, planks and other debris raining on them. Peter clutched onto Mr. Stark’s mechanical arm, slamming his eyes shut tight. He prayed for it to end his all of his limbs and organs flipped, tumbled and twisted. He cried out, unintentionally, which made Mr. Stark's grip tighter. Peter wanted it to end.  _Stop! Stop! Stop!_

His prayers were answered a few seconds later as the ship groaned to a tripping halt.

They arrived on the mysterious planet.

There were quick movements around him. Peter opened his eyes to find Strange running over to them.

“You all right?” he asked, extending his hand to help them up.

Mr. Stark reluctantly took it as he struggled to get out of the wreckage that fell on them when they crashed. Once up, Mr. Stark brushed Strange's hand away as he lifted Peter to his feet, looking over him. “Kid? You okay? You hurt?”

Peter nodded.

“You’re hurt!” Mr. Stark panicked.

Dr. Strange moved forward too, quickly evaluating every inch of his body to find any external wounds.

Peter shook his head. “No, I mean I’m all right,” he clarified to the two adults, watching both their faces relax. “Sorry. I’m fine. Good.”

“You’re sure?” Dr. Strange asked again for affirmation.

Peter nodded. “Yeah,” he stated, sucking in a deep breath as he looked over the wreckage. “God—I hate flying.”

Mr. Stark snorted. “No kidding,” he quipped as he stepped over the broken railing, coming up to the cracked viewport. “So… this is it, huh? Kind of… dusty.”

Peter looked out. The planet felt haunted by its ruins built upon even more ruins of what Peter imagined was a grandeur civilization. Star-shaped structures littered the lands stretched out far to the horizon. Ash and dust filled the air as though the planet was left aflame, burning out of existence. There were pockets where gravity barely existed, leaving dust and debris to float in midair, like it was a marking for a grave. The pale red sky added to the apocalyptic feeling.

Peter didn’t have a good feeling about this planet. It’s haunted, dead look reminded him too much of _every sci-fi horror film he’s ever seen. And in every movie, the landing party was always attacked_.

Dr. Strange stepped up beside Mr. Stark. “It was once called Titan,” he said. “Apparently, it was the home planet to a sophisticated civilization before it plunged itself into death.”

“Wow. Really?” Mr. Stark sarcastically remarked. “Hard to believe.”

Something kept gnawing at the back of Peter’s head. He stared out at the dusty, red, barren field and saw nothing. Yet, his senses tingled and it picked his mind, sending spikes of anxiety through his nervous system. In every sci-fi film he’d seen, nothing ever good came from getting a bad feeling in the middle of nowhere, especially on a dusty, barren planet that they crashed on.

Peter roamed the area, searching for the cause. Searching for the source of his distress as the two adults kept talking to one another.

Something was coming. Someone was coming.

Peter stepped up next to Strange. “Hey, um, let me say, if aliens wind up implanting eggs in my chest or something and I eat one of you, I’m sorry—”

Mr. Stark cut him off with a wave of a disciplinary finger at him. “I do not want another single pop culture reference out of you for the rest of the trip. You understand?”

“Yeah, it’s just, I’m trying to say that something is coming,” Peter blurted as his spidey-sense went into full activation mode, his body already moving to avoid the danger.

However, neither Strange nor Mr. Stark managed to react fast enough as a metal ball was thrown into the broken ship, rolling up to them. It whined before it exploded, shooting Dr. Strange and Mr. Stark in different directions.

Peter leapt to the ceiling and stayed stuck as he watched a group of bandits spring up out of nowhere, guns and knives ablaze.

“THANOS!” roared an odd-looking humanoid who dressed only in pants and wielded two daggers. He charged right into the ship, throwing his twin blades right at Dr. Strange.

“Doc!” Peter screamed in terror, but Dr. Strange recovered fast enough.

He threw up a golden disk, shielding himself and blocking the blades from doing any harm against him. Then he conjured a magical whip, disarming the charging green-grey skinned humanoid. That didn’t halt the humanoid’s determination. He kept going until the Cloak of Levitation swooped in, wrapping it around the humanoid’s face before pinning it down to the ground.

Peter heard blaster fire and saw Iron Man in action, taking to the skies as he dodged incoming blasts from a masked individual. The two continued to exchange fire, each deftly dodging and blocking the other’s blows in midair. Peter scuttled along the ceiling and watched as Mr. Stark gained the upper-hand in the fight.

That was until the masked individual planted a powerful magnet on Mr. Stark’s reactor, which left him stuck and squirming against the twisted piece of metal.

Peter immediately dropped from the ceiling to help Mr. Stark, except when he landed, it was right in front of a freaky-looking alien with large black eyes and antennae perched atop of its head.

Peter freaked and stumbled backwards, falling on his butt as the weird alien approached him.

“Please don’t put your eggs in me,” Peter begged as he backed away from the alien, shooting webs at it to slow it down.

He got up, swerved and looped to evade the bug-like alien, only to be kicked away from fully entrapping the alien by the masked bandit who attacked Mr. Stark earlier.

“Stay down clown,” the masked bandit ordered as he went in for another kick.

Peter rolled away, his exoskeleton of four spider legs activating. He hopped and swung around the spaceship’s wreckage, trying to get away from the masked bandit who chased after him. It kept shooting blasters at him and Peter used every possible maneuver tactic he ever learned to draw away from the blasts that kept firing too close to comfort for him.

Below him, the half-naked man continued to wrestle with the cloak, trying to free itself and contain the sentient cloth. “Die blanket of death!” the man bellowed.

But, his attempt would be utter pointless because Mr. Stark managed to free himself. He flew straight to the embattled half-naked man, looming over him with his weapons fully activated. Peter gaped, his heart pounding hard in chest in fear that Mr. Stark was going to shoot the unarmed man.

His compatriots must have thought that too, because suddenly, Peter was struck from behind and snatched up. Peter tried to squirm out, but the masked man pulled him in and pressed his blaster right into the side of his head.

Peter instantly stiffened, immobilized.

“Everybody stay where you are. Chill the fuck out,” the masked man ordered. He reached up and touched the side of his mask, deactivating it to reveal… well, a man. He looked exactly like a human from Earth.

The former masked man turned to Iron Man. “I’m gonna ask you this one time,” he warned, shoving the gun further into Peter’s temple. “Where’s Gamora?”

Peter saw Iron Man’s eyes glow red. “Yeah?” he challenged, raising his faceplate and Peter saw Mr. Stark's face. Eyes bulging, mouth pressed thin in scorn, and muscle tensed, ready to unleash damage. “I’ll do you one better _who’s_ Gamora?”

“I’ll do you one better!” cried out the half-naked man from below, still pinned by the Cloak of Levitation. “ _Why_ is Gamora?”

That drew an awkward and bemusing quietness among the armed group.

The former masked man ignored it, acting like it was used to such outrageous nonsense. He turned right back to Mr. Stark, still pointing the blaster at Peter’s head. “Tell me where the girl is or I swear to you, I’m going to French fry this little freak.”

And the man dug his blaster deeper into Peter’s skull to the point Peter cringed and winced at the uncomfortable pressure. Which ended up not being a good response, as, suddenly, Mr. Stark’s blaster morphed into a gigantic gun, the barrel mere inches from the half-naked man’s face.

“You wanna go? Let’s do this,” Mr. Stark yelled at the man, that terrifying rage boiling to the surface. “You shoot my guy and I’ll blast yours into a billion tiny pieces that he basically be nothing but ash! C’mon, let’s go!”

Mr. Stark’s menacing weapon whined and it grew brighter, blue light reflecting off the half-naked man’s chest.

The half-naked man was unafraid. “Do it, Quill!” he shouted, lifting his hands in surrender and braced himself. “I can take it.”

“No, he can’t!” yelled a child-like voice from behind them.

“She’s right,” came Dr. Strange’s collected voice as he approached, still armed with his golden disks. He flickered a glance to the threatened man. “You can’t.”

The man holding Peter—Quill, as his companion dubbed him—glared at Iron Man and Dr. Strange. “Oh yeah? You don’t want to tell me where she is? That’s fine. I’ll kill all three of you and I’ll beat it out of Thanos myself,” The man tightened his grip on Peter, “starting with you.”

Mr. Stark’s other arm flicked up, again morphing it another large weapon as his shoulders expanded, bringing up armed missiles and aiming it directly at Quill’s head. “You harm a single hair on that kid—”

This was getting out of hand. Peter needed to act quickly to get out of the man’s hold. Then he realized something. Something Quill said. “Wait! Wait… wait,” Peter shouted to lessen the growing tension. “Thanos? Did you say you want to beat Thanos?”

Quill scrunched his face at him. “Gotta a problem with me beating the crap out of your master?”

“Wait? What?” Dr. Strange leaned forward, catching Quill’s eyes. “All right, let me ask you this one time—what master do you serve?”

“What master do I serve?” Quill repeated with incredulity. “What am I supposed to say? Jesus?”

Mr. Stark stared at him, realization beginning to form. “You’re from Earth,” he stated, his face still creased with hidden terror and fury at Quill for pressing the blaster into Peter’s skull.

Quill indignantly stared at Mr. Stark. “I’m not from Earth. I’m from Missouri.”

“Yeah, that’s on Earth, moron. What are you hassling us for?” Mr. Stark barked, frustrated that the man has yet to lower his weapon.

“You’re not with Thanos, right?” Peter followed-up, his voice sounding muffled and tiny.

“With Thanos?” Quill acted reproached by the question. “No! I’m here to kill Thanos. He took my girl… wait, who are you people?”

Quill finally lowered his blasters from Peter’s head, which Peter used the moment to reveal his face. His mask retracted, shocking Quill as the latter jumped a little. Then, the man’s eyes went wide when he saw Peter’s full face.

Quill immediately let Peter go. “You’re a fucking kid!”

“No, I’m not!” Peter hated being called that. Hated being seen as just a child when he could do more than any mere child.

Quill derisively snorted. “You look like a baby,” he commented. “What are you? Twelve?”

“Fifteen!”

“Sixteen,” Mr. Stark corrected and when Peter shot him a baffled look, he added, “Your birthday was yesterday, kid.”

Was it really? Did he miss his birthday? Granted, he didn’t even know what month they were in, let alone to know his birthday passed. It wasn’t the first thing to come up. But, why didn’t his aunt say anything? She would know. Unless all the recent stress and turmoil caused her to forget too.

Peter looked down, studying his hands, arms, chest, legs and feet, half-expecting to suddenly grow; and yet, knowing the impossibility of instant growth happening at that moment. Still, he couldn’t believe he missed his birthday. His sweet sixteen birthday. He had all these ideas he wanted to do… people to celebrate with… and he missed it!

“I’m sixteen?”

Mr. Stark’s following statement was overrun by Quill’s interjection. “Yeah, whatever, happy birthday, squirt,” he remarked, his face still set with distrust. “Now, who the hell are you people?”

“We’re the Avengers,” Mr. Stark sharply answered, liking Quill less and less.

That same child-like voice cried overhead in a panic. “You’re the ones Thor told us about!”

Mr. Stark stopped in his tracks. “You know Thor?”

“Yeah. Tall guy, not that good-looking, needed saving,” Quill rattled on, describing Thor in terms Peter would never associate with the famed God of Thunder.

Dr. Strange looked interested. His gold disks disappeared, and he approached the group. Mr. Stark powered down his weapons while simultaneously pulling Peter out of harm’s way.

“Where is he?” Dr. Strange asked, sounding impatient for the first time since Peter met the man. “Where is Thor right now?”

Quill shrugged. “Don’t know. Something about off to create a Titan killing weapon,” he answered. “I don’t know the place.”

Strange looked disappointed, but still resolved in what must be done. “Can we assume that you will not try to kill us?” he asked, “seeing as we are all after the same thing?”

Quill eyed Mr. Stark, looking at the Iron Man suit with grave suspicions. It didn’t help that Mr. Stark glared at the man, his mouth a thin line straight across his face.

But Quill slowly nodded, strapping his blaster to his holster. “You’re here to kill Thanos too?” he questioned. “What did he do to you?”

“He tried to destroy New York,” Peter answered, “But, how do you not know that? You’re from Earth! How can you not—”

“Kid or whoever you are—”

“Peter. Peter Parker.”

A tiny squeal came from behind Quill as the bug alien hopped beside him. “You are Peter too? Are all males from Terra called Peter?”

“Terra?” Peter bunched his eyebrows, darting looks between the three newcomers. "What—"

"She means Earth," Quill inserted to clarify.

“It is weird all Terran males are called Peter,” added the half-naked man, standing upright after Strange ordered the cloak to release him. He kept his small, glaring eyes on the cloak though, frowning at it. "It makes sense that you go by Quill. Less confusing."

Peter whirled back to Quill. “Your name's Peter too?”

Quill shuffled his feet. “Peter’s my first name. Quill’s my last name,” he answered, but then cocked his head. “But most people call me Star-Lord.”

“Star-Lord?” Peter sounded it out, finding the name somewhat cool and ridiculous. Mr. Stark only looked exasperated by the name.

“No one calls you that,” the half-naked man stated. “Only you.”

Quill inhaled sharply and shallow. “Point is… yeah. My name's also Peter, but you can call me Star-Lord. To avoid confusion.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Star-Lord,” Peter extended his hand to officially greet and welcome Star-Lord into their little group, but Mr. Stark stuck out his arm to cut him off.

“And what exactly are you guys?” Mr. Stark confronted, dissecting their small group with disdain. “How do we know to trust you? Haven't exactly been welcoming nor forth coming with information about yourselves. Who exactly are you?”

Peter pouted, glowering up at Mr. Stark for the man’s instant distrust. He acknowledged they all got on the wrong foot at the beginning, but that was due to a misunderstanding. Peter didn't hold a grudge against Star-Lord for his actions. The man lost someone to Thanos. Someone of great importance for him to be that dramatic and desperate. Also, they knew Thor! That meant they were good. Thor wouldn't be hanging around criminals or anyone associated with Thanos. 

But Star-Lord didn’t act offended at all. Rather, the corner of his lips tugged up into a smirk, hands on his hips as he puffed out his chest. His gaze cool, cocky even.

“We’re the Guardians of the Galaxy.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey readers! Thanks for reading the latest chapter. As you probably noticed, I am updating a lot quicker than before, and that's because I actually wrote the last chapters of the story prior to even writing chapter two. So... the updates will be more frequent after some editing and writing adjustments. Just giving you a heads up. 
> 
> Thanks again! Love all your comments, remarks and critiques.


	26. The Pinnacle of Death

"What the hell happened to this planet?"

Peter Quill, aka Star-Lord, stepped gingerly among the crumbling ruins of the decimated landscape. He had something in his hand and he was checking it as he walked. "It's eight degrees off its axis. Gravitational pull is all over the place."

That explained the pockets of floating debris. The bug alien—Mantis—happily jumped and spun high in one of those pockets, a giddy smile on her face as she enjoyed herself. Her friend, the half-naked wrestler named Drax the Destroyer, stood and watched. Peter was too timid to ask about the 'Destroyer' part of his name. Too afraid of the answer he may get.

Overall, Peter liked the Guardians of the Galaxy. Half of their members were missing though. Rocket and Groot went with Thor on his mission and Gamora, Star-Lord's lady friend, was kidnapped by Thanos because she knew the location of another stone.

Star-Lord closed the device and pocketed it. "No wonder it looks like shit."

Peter trailed after him, trying to get a look at the device. "Is that some kind of scanner?"

"Kind of," Quill replied. "It can measure axial tilts, but it does more."

"You build it?"

"What? No!" Quill clipped a chuckled at the absurdity of the idea. "You can get these anywhere."

"Never seen them on Earth."

Quill shrugged. "Almost everywhere then," he corrected. "Is this your first time in space?"

Peter nodded. "Yeah. It is."

"And your first destination is here?"

"There wasn't much of an option," Peter reminded him of the serious situation they were in.

Quill grudgingly nodded as he glanced around the demolished planet. "Well, once we kick the crap out of Thanos, we can take you to a real destination vacation," he said. "Like Contraxia! You'll have fun there."

Peter perked up, listening to Quill talk about other planets he visited. The prospect of traveling to different planets enticed Peter. It was like a real-life  _Star Wars_ adventure. Ned would be jealous. Well, more jealous if there wasn't a psycho wanting to kill half of the universe in the picture. Still, it was pretty cool Peter traveled in space, standing on a former planet.

"How long have you been in space?" Peter asked after Quill spoke to him about Xander's uptight world.

"Since I was eight years old."

Peter's mouth dropped. "W-what… how? I mean… how did you get to space?" he inquired, bizarre by how an eight-year-old human got to space. Peter got to space by accident. Others got to space through NASA. But Quill… he acted like outer space was his home, visiting vast planets and entwining with different aliens and species, which sounded more like a figment of Hollywood's imagination.

Quill kicked a broken piece of machinery aside. "That's a long story, but the short answer is I got abducted."

"By aliens!"

Quill squinted at the boy in good humor. "Yeah," he said, "by 'aliens' or otherwise known as Ravengers. Basically space pirates."

"You were abducted by space pirates!"

He wanted to hear that story, but Mr. Stark appeared at Peter's elbow, pulling him aside and away from Quill. "Gather around," he announced to everyone. "Thanos can arrive any second now. So—we got one advantage: he's coming to us. We'll use it. All right, I have a plan. Or at least the beginnings of one. It's pretty simple. We draw him in, pin him down, get what we need. Definitely don't want to dance with this guy. We only want the—"

Drax the Destroyer took that moment to yawn.

"Are you yawning? In the middle of this, while I'm breaking it down?" Mr. Stark was infuriated. "Huh? Did you hear what I said?"

Drax, fingers latched onto his pants, nonchalantly shrugged. "I stopped listening after you said 'We need a plan.'"

Mr. Stark's jaw clenched, restraining his frustrations and swallowing his temper back down his throat. "Okay, Mr. Clean is on his own page," he said like he decided they didn't need to include Drax in this effort to take down Thanos.

"See, 'not winging it' isn't really what we do," Quill tried to defend his teammate.

"Uh… what is it that you exactly do?" Peter questioned, curious. It sounded unbelievable that they don't ever plan for anything. Their attack on them from earlier seemed to have been plotted out.

But it wasn't Quill who answered. It was Mantis.

"Kick names, take ass," she declared in some kind of menacing confidence.

Drax stood taller. "Yeah, that's right."

Peter stared. He didn't know how to respond to that. Any of that. Neither did Tony. They only stared at the two. For a long time.

They were about to confront the biggest threat the universe has ever known. Face the greatest enemy to threaten Earth. An enemy that sent Tony Stark—Iron Man—spiraling for six years. An enemy threatening to wipe out half of the universe at the snap of his fingers. And Peter stood in the middle of an apocalyptic dust ball of a planet, with no one except a liar, a wizard and three space bandits who were cocky enough to get themselves killed.

It didn't look good. At all.

Mr. Stark dropped his head, looking thoroughly exhausted and somewhat defeated. "All right, just get over here, please. Star-Whatever, can you get your folks to circle up?"

"It's Star- _Lord_ ," Quill emphasized and he nodded at Mantis and Drax to step forward.

Peter inched closer, ready to listen to the full plan. And praying it was good and it was going to work.

Mr. Stark addressed the misfit group. "We gotta coalesce. 'Cause if all we come at him with is a plucky attitude—"

"Dude! Don't call us plucky. We don't know what that means," Quill said, defensively as he glared at Mr. Stark. And there went Peter's hopes down the drain. "All right, we're optimistic, yes. I like your plan. Except, it sucks. So, let  _me_  do the plan and that way it might be really good."

Drax nodded, encouragingly, before boasting, "Tell him about the dance-off to save the universe."

Peter snapped his head to Quill as did Mr. Stark, who looked rightfully perplexed. "What dance-off?" Mr. Stark asked.

"I-It's nothing," stammered Quill, discomfited.

Peter's mind shuffled through his memory storage. "Like in  _Footloose_ , the movie?" he asked.

Quill's eyes lit up. "Exactly like  _Footloose_!" he exclaimed. "Is it still the greatest movie in history?"

"It never was," Peter flippantly replied, but instantly regretted it when his careless words struck Quill hard. Star-Lord deflated, discouraged.

Peter went to apologize, but Mr. Stark stopped him. "Don't encourage this, all right?" he instructed, guiding Peter away from the group as the man huffed out his frustrations. "We're getting no help from Flash Gordon here."

"Flash Gordon?" Quill stepped back up to Mr. Stark. "By the way, that's a compliment. Don't forget I'm half human. So that fifty percent of me that's stupid… that's one hundred percent you."

Peter's face pinched at the mathematical problem, reevaluating the man's words in his head to comprehend what the man meant. Mr. Stark let out scoff.

"Your math is blowing my mind," he sarcastically fired back to Quill.

"Wait—you're not fully human?" Peter directed his question to Star-Lord. "I thought you said you were from Missouri?"

"I am, kid," Quill answered. "Human mother. Not-so human father."

"Then what's your other half?" Peter's curiosity asked before he slammed his mouth shut in horror, realizing his insensitiveness of the question. "Sorry! Is that okay to ask that? I'm not trying to be rude or—"

Quill shrugged. "I'm half human, half celestial."

"Celestial?" Peter thought it over. "Like a god? Like Thor?"

Quill boasted out his chest again, straightening his back and tipping his chin slightly up. "No—not like Thor. Better," he claimed. "He's just a god. Lower case. I'm part celestial—an upper case God. He only shoots bolts of lightning. I can actually  _create_  things."

Peter's eyes bulged in magnitude! His mouth flopped opened, looking up around Quill's head. For some reason, he expected a halo or some kind of godly glow over the guy's head. All he saw though was the flying debris from the lack of gravity. Still, Peter reevaluated Quill all over again. No wonder he went by the name Star-Lord.

Awestruck, Peter started to fire rapid questions. "So you can like build trees or control the skies? Can you create a new species? Or is that not it at all? What can a celestial do?"

"Whoa—easy kid! What are you? A nerd?" Quill joked, but he still smiled at Peter. He looked like he enjoyed Peter's admiration and attention. "No—I mean. Maybe. Who knows? I haven't tried. I did create a gigantic size Pac-Man once. Just with a thought. Used it in a fight. It was awesome."

Peter's mind lit up with endless possibilities. "This is great!" he shouted, looking between Quill and Mr. Stark, who looked at Quill with renew consternation. "That's a total advantage to us! Having a god on our side—"

"Quill? You got your powers back?" interrupted Drax. "You are more useful now."

Peter flickered a look back to Quill, who winced at hearing Drax's words. "Wait… what… what does he mean?" he questioned, searching again for some kind of mystic glow around Quill. "Do you not have—"

"I did have powers at one point," Quill quickly answered. "Long story short. My real father was an egomaniac douchebag with plans to convert the whole universe into his image. We stopped him, but… it meant losing my powers. So—"

"You remain useless," Mr. Stark filled in. "That's great. Now that you got our hopes up only to crush them, can we carry on with creating a real plan on destroying Thanos?"

Quill eyes flared, mouth small. "Kid—your dad is a real asshole."

"He's not my dad," Peter immediately responded.

"Step-dad."

"No relations whatsoever."

Quill scrutinized Peter and Mr. Stark with a questionable brow. "Okay… what is this?" he asked, wagging a finger at them both. "Did you kidnap him? Hey, kid? Blink twice if in danger."

Funny how almost spot-on Quill was. Although Peter knew Quill was joking, Peter almost blinked twice, but Mr. Stark's face went rigid and his eyes cold at the Quill's remark. "He's my intern," he stated, "and at this moment, I'm his guardian. You hurt him, I kill you."

Quill was nonplussed by the threat. Almost like it was the norm for him to be presented with death on a daily basis. "Whatever man, I'm here to kill Thanos and get my girl back," he replied. "Maybe afterwards, I'll kill you."

Before Mr. Stark could fire back, Mantis' voice broke between the two duelists.

"Excuse me, but does your friend often do that?" she asked, pointing to Dr. Strange.

Strange was seated cross-legged, floating in mid-air with the assistance of the Cloak of Levitation. His hands were formed in a strange position in front of the now opened necklace. The Time Stone glowed, the green bursting in color as it surrounded the wizard like some evil mist. Most disturbing, however, was the quick movements of his head. They moved in quick successions, all in different positions. It moved so fast that his face was simply a blur. Even Peter had a hard time concentrating.

"Strange! We all right?" Mr. Stark called up to him, but received no answer.

Panic seeped into Peter. He raced forward, climbing up the discarded and littered ruins to get to Strange. As he reached him, Strange's frantic motions stopped and his body crashed back down onto the planet. Peter bent down to help him up, but Strange grabbed onto his shoulders instead, steading himself into a seated position as he came off his trance.

Peter noted Strange was breathing heavily, like he woke up from a nightmare. His forehead shined with sweat and his eyes were twitching a bit.

"Dr. Strange?" Peter knelt next to the man as he heard the others approach from behind. "Are you here? It's Peter. You're all right."

"Hi," Strange groaned to Peter, recovering himself.

"Hey, um, what was that?" he asked, curious to know what happened to Strange. It didn't look good at all.

Strange recollected himself, regaining his composure as he addressed the group. "I went forward in time to view alternate futures," he said, taking a gasp as he blinked a few more times. Peter imagined all those visions did a number on his eyesight. "To see all the possible outcomes of the coming conflict."

"How many did you see?" Quill nervously asked the wizard.

"Fourteen million, six hundred and five."

The silence that followed afterwards was hard to describe. It pricked the heart and taunted the brain. Everyone knew of the follow-up question, but dreaded the answer.

Mr. Stark squatted low, meeting Strange's eyes as he tentatively asked the dreaded follow-up question. "How many did we win?"

Strange took a long time to answer. Each second that ticked by became deeper and deeper hole, standing and being waited to have dirt bury them in the ground. Strange's haunted eyes locked on Peter, making his heart quickened and seize to a stop all at once. The wizard's voice was hoarse when he spoke the single, most dreaded word anyone ever heard.

"One."

* * *

 Strange outlined the plan of attack. Each had their task, their positions. No one could falter. No mistakes could be made. They had to fight with all their strength. It was the fight for their lives. Fight for others' lives.

The big battle. The final war.

The Guardians of the Galaxy huddled in their group, using the last moments of their possible lives to cherish friendships. One last hurrah, as Quill quipped and then he jokingly offered Peter that once they win, he could take him to a much cooler planet. Or at least, Peter thought Quill was joking. The man may actually be serious.

Dr. Strange sat on a crashed star-like machinery, meditating and finding his center. Or possibly doing some kind of magical chant. Peter didn't know, but he let the wizard be. They all had their different ways of spending their possible last moments alive.

Peter sat alone. The people he wanted to be with were lightyears away. His aunt probably sickened with worry, wondering what happened to him, not knowing he was in space, on a dead planet, waiting to fight for his life. She wouldn't want that. She would order him to come home. Come right back home and straight to his bedroom. Grounded, for sure, and lecturing him that it wasn't his responsibility to fight in wars.

But it was his war. It was everyone's war. The fight for life against death. If he wanted to live, he had to fight for it. If he wanted Aunt May to live, he had to fight harder. Whatever it took.

He released a nervous sigh. Fighting. Life. Death. He practiced and trained for this very situation and yet, he felt underwhelming unprepared for it. He wasn't a soldier. Never was. He couldn't even fire off a gun. A gun filled with bean bags. Not bullets. They tried their best to weaponize him, but… Peter never got passed that part. Never got to the killing.

One chance. One chance to get everything right and win. The universe's existence depended on it, resting heavy on his shoulder—their shoulders!—to keep the thread from breaking and unraveling. Peter's chest constricted and his stomach did a few more flips of unease. He should be used to this. The concept of death. He knew of it since he was five years old. Then again at fourteen. All those experiences in his short life made him feel incredibly old, but at the very moment, he felt like a child, clinging onto himself for one last comfort and looking around at all the adults with hope to finish it.

He looked out, seeing the Guardians together, patting each other on the back with well-wishes and good lucks. Peter blinked, holding back as he once again wished to see his aunt one more time. If only to tell her he loved her and that he was sorry. He wished to see Ned too. Just to tell him he was the best, the greatest friend anyone could ever have. He hoped they both knew how much they meant to him. He hoped they knew how much he loved them.

God—it was horrible to be alone at the pinnacle of death.

"Is this seat taken?"

Peter flinched up. Mr. Stark stood above him, but the man already started to sit down without waiting for permission. Peter dropped his knees, switching into a cross-legged position. The man plopped down on the dirt, keeping his legs spread and leaned his head back against the broken pieces of their spaceship.

Neither said anything. They stayed quiet, but Peter's mind whirled with new worries and anxieties with Mr. Stark seated beside him. Mr. Stark, however, looked relatively calm. His breathing pattern was normal, his heartbeat in good rhythm and his whole body looked relaxed—nothing like Peter, who squirmed and fidgeted at every second. The only thing that gave Mr. Stark away was his eyes. In the depths of the man's vision, laid a haunted man. Ghost fluttering in and out of his irises. The dark circles around his eyes got worse, and the man kept looking at everything, waiting.

Then, suddenly… "You ready for this?"

Peter blinked up at the man. "Um, yeah, ready as I will ever be," he timidly answered, not sure what to say next. "Er... what about you? Are you scared?"

 Mr. Stark went quiet for a moment. "Always."

That wasn't the answer Peter expected. The man hardly ever looked scared. Always stoic and flippant about any situation he faced. He ran toward danger. Every single time. A scared man didn't do that.

Peter's face must have revealed his thoughts because Mr. Stark added, "It's okay to be afraid. It means you have something worth fighting for."

Peter thought of his aunt. Ned. Trillions of lives across the universe. "What about you?" he asked, wanting to know what kept Mr. Stark fighting. "What are you fighting for?"

A small smile posed on the man's lips. "The future."

Another unexpected response. Mr. Stark was full of surprises for Peter. He was beginning to wonder if it was the same man he met at the Compound. How could a man, obsessed with saving the future still be the same man who lied and abused him for months? It was utterly confusing for Peter. Not that his fight wasn't noble or worth the effort, but it was hard to see the two contrasting personalities in the same man. 

Mr. Stark shifted and sighed heavily, fingers fidgeting against his legs. "I know you said you didn't want an explanation," he began, biting the insides of his cheeks, "but I need you to know this before we go out there fighting for all existence."

Peter licked his lips in worry. Last moments. These were going to be his last moments if they fail. If everything goes wrong.

When Peter didn’t say anything, Mr. Stark took that as his cue to begin:

"The Accords, as you know, was meant to regulate superhero business, be the middle-ground between the Avengers and the world. Help establish peace and a working network of heroes to get things done and protect Earth," Mr. Stark started as Peter remained silent. He already knew this. It was part of his indoctrination when he lived at the Compound. "But things got more complicated. Got worse. Then Deadpool dumped you for cash and… Jesus—you were just a kid. This tiny kid, running around playing superhero—"

Peter made a face and Mr. Stark quickly amended. "Not like that," he said. "I mean, you were actually going around stopping bad people from doing bad things.

"My point is that you were thrust into this situation and… I didn't know what to do," Mr. Stark carried on with his confession. "You were a kid and Ross… the others didn't care. They saw you as something else and I just couldn't live with that." He paused, finally turning his head to look down at Peter. "Thing is, Peter, everything I did was to protect you. I thought it would be easier for you—no, easier for  _me_  to keep you safe."

Keep him safe? Peter cocked his head, eyebrows furrowing as his mind processed the information. Keep him safe? That didn't make any sense to him. He hadn't been safe at all, living in a compound filled with dangerous individuals, some even trying to harm him. What dangers were Tony Stark protecting him from? Because it wasn't from the Accords. Mr. Stark had no problem tossing him in the Hole for his insubordination. And it wasn't from the government because Peter now knew Mr. Stark was the one driving the Accords.

The only way to find out was to ask.

"From what?"

Mr. Stark blanked. "Hmm?"

Peter faced him. Really looked right into Mr. Stark's eyes. "What were you protecting me from?" he asked again. "What got you so scared that you thought it would be safe for a teenager to be living in a compound filled with egotistical superheroes and lie to his aunt that he's dead?"

Mr. Stark drew in a sharp breath. "That wasn't me. It probably was the officials who decided to lie to her about your whereabouts. Probably did it to save face and keep everything under control. You're a child. People don't respond well when children are involved."

"Wonder why?" Peter sarcastically mused. "You still didn't let me talk to her." He recalled all the times he begged to speak to her. "You even set up a fake recording. She never got my message, Mr. Stark. The one you helped me get."

Mr. Stark looked apprehensive, eyes moving away from Peter, looking elsewhere. "I know."

"You know what?"

"That your message to your aunt was deleted," Mr. Stark answered. "The Watchdogs spotted the ping and reported it. I was forced to erase the message by orders of the Secretary Ross." He gave a little shake of his head, muttering underneath his breath. "Should have told you, but I didn't want to hurt you. I knew how much that call meant to you and I didn't want you to worry."

Peter rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. "You didn't say anything because you didn't want me to know about my aunt," he scornfully retorted. "And when I found out, you decided to kill her and—"

"Whoa! Back up," Mr. Stark ordered, face darkening with grave insult. He jabbed a disciplinary finger right back at Peter. "That's not what happened! I didn't order anyone to kill anyone. I told Happy to bring her to the Tower for her own safety. That's it. Not to kill her. To  _talk to her_."

"About what? How you were training her nephew to become a soldier? Or that you threw him into some kind of effed-up prison?"

Mr. Stark looked pained, pressing him lips thin in remorse. "I'm sorry about that. It was an impulse reaction—"

"I don't care!" Peter's eyes stung. A lump forming at the bottom of his throat, croaking his words out. "You don't care. You never cared! I'm nothing more than… than…

And that was what Peter was to Mr. Stark. A thing. A soldier. An asset.

"Don't do that."

Peter squinted reproachfully at Mr. Stark. "Do what?"

"Don't start thinking that you're nothing more than a power play," Mr. Stark asserted, looking hurt that he had to even say that. "You're more than that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Really?" The corners of Mr. Stark's mouth were downturned, startled by Peter's question. "After all this time, you still haven't figured it out?"

He placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, gripping it tight, but not aggressively. Enough to indicate to Peter that the boy needed to hear his words. Needed Peter to listen to him.

Mr. Stark lowered his head, gaze right upon Peter. "You're important, Peter," he said it so soft that Peter actually had to concentrate to hear them. "To me. To a lot of other people. If you were just another enhanced human like the rest of them, I wouldn't have given you a second thought. But you're not. You're much more than you think you are. And while I know you have reservations and insecurities, I never doubted you.

"I believe in you," Mr. Stark avowed, a proud grin on the man's face that surprisingly warmed Peter's heart. "You're going to be the best hero out of all of us. I know it. I just  _know_ it."

Mr. Stark looked determined, righteous and full of renewed belief. "That's why I did everything I did," he admitted, sniffling and wiping a hand over the lower half of his face. "Everything I did was to keep you alive and safe until you were ready…

"Well, apparently, I fucked that up," Mr. Stark said, looking around at the planet again, frowning at the others. He carded his fingers through his hair in frustrations at the situation they both found themselves in. "You shouldn't be here. You're not supposed to be  _here_."

He sighed, longingly, regrettably and then acceptably. Nothing could be changed. Peter was there. Nothing Mr. Stark could do about it.

Mr. Stark absentmindedly searched the red-blue skies, admiring or dreading the new world. "I swear… the world keeps getting stranger and stranger. Sometimes, when I think I know everything... bam! Out of nowhere! Gods, celestials, empaths, magicians... the universe is far dangerous than anyone ever thought."

Peter guessed so. The universe certainly tripled in size for him. The Earth no longer felt big. It was small. Tiny. Almost insignificant now that he's been to space and met the Guardians. The universe was vast, unknown and scarier than Peter ever read in his textbooks at home.

"Yeah," Peter muttered a quiet reply. "Definitely not what I imagined."

Mr. Stark turned back to him. "I know I messed up with you, and I want to so badly go back and fix my mistakes, but I know I can’t. That can’t be fixed. We can only move forward,” he begrudgingly admitted. "And despite our disagreements and feelings, I’ll still do whatever it takes to protect you. ‘Til my dying breath.”

That single statement resonated something in Peter. Captain America's words returned, echoing loud in his head.

_"I believe when the time comes, Tony would do it. Choose you. Over power._ "

Peter let out a long steady breath, thinking. What Mr. Stark did was wrong. The lies and the manipulations were wrong and he hated Mr. Stark for it. But, hearing him speak about his reasons and faults, it knotted everything Peter knew it a wadded mess of knowledge and emotions. Hard to untangle and hard to keep it separate. Peter wanted to believe in the man. He wanted to let that sense of comfort and love envelope him again as they ready to mount a life-changing attack. He wanted Captain America to be right. That when the time came, Mr. Stark would do the right thing.

"Anyway, now you know everything," Mr. Stark finished up his confession, sniffling again. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but… now you know.”

Peter processed it, chewing on the words and his own feelings by the confession. He didn’t doubt that Mr. Stark thought he was doing the right thing. Same as Captain America thought about Mr. Stark. Peter knew, deep in the crevices of mind and heart, Mr. Stark did have some affection for him. That Iron Man did have a soft spot for him, cared for Peter and enjoyed his companionship. And while Peter unsuccessfully attempted to banish those memories and brainwash himself into believing it wasn’t true—that it was all simply, well-placed lies—he knew that Mr. Stark did, at some level, cared about him.

And it made Peter feel dizzy and upset. He wished life didn’t have to be this complicated. But he nodded along and said, “Yeah, I guess I do.”

Mr. Stark erected his spine, posturing and becoming more collected than he was a minute ago. He rest his hand back on Peter’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

"We'll get through this. You and I. We're survivors. We persevere." Mr. Stark looked down at Peter, eyes on him with gentle softness, almost pleading. "Follow the wizard’s plan and if that goes out the window, you stick close to me. I'll keep you alive so that you can see your aunt again. Okay? Yeah? Do you trust me?"

Trust. A dangerous game, especially for Peter. He had trust many people only to get hurt at the end. It's hard to move on when one loses the game. The wounds he endured still bled at times, ache at nights. He desperately wanted to trust the man. How many times had he seen Iron Man save the world? Save countless lives time after time? So many people rested their hopes and faith in him coming to their rescue. Peter reluctantly felt the same. Mr. Stark had experience. He knew the drill. Knew what to do. Knew how to win. And Peter… he wanted to believe that Mr. Stark can pull off another miracle like all those other times.

Peter wanted Mr. Stark to be Iron Man once more for him. 

Mr. Stark must have noted the hesitation and quickly spoke, "It's okay if you don't," he reassured him. "It's not like I earn—"

"No, I do trust you," Peter replied, shocking Mr. Stark. He surprised even himself by how much he meant it. "I trust you in this fight. It's the afterwards I don't... I don't know."

Mr. Stark took a deep, ruminative breath. "I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get there," he said after a few seconds. "We can talk again after we beat Thanos. Cool?"

Peter nodded, but the truth was, Peter didn’t really plan to. Neither he nor Mr. Stark knew what would happen after the fight. If they would win or lose. Peter didn't know. If they won, he hoped Mr. Stark would let him go. Leave him be. At the moment, he was consent that they settled their difference, able to tolerate and come to a mild understanding. Enough for Peter to relax around the hero. If Mr. Stark was sincere in his words, in his apology, then the man would let him go. Let him and his aunt live their lives without interference.

Time was almost coming to an end. Peter sensed it. Felt it right through him and straight to his bones. The moment was racing toward them. The fight for their lives screeching toward them at full throttle and Peter's heart raced alongside it.

His uncle's words echoed in his head: " _Whenever the time comes, you must be brave."_

He hoped he was brave. Enough to stop the Mad Titan. Enough to save the universe. At the moment though, he was rattled and panicked. Nothing like the stoic heroes around him, who all faced aliens, madmen and murderous robots. Peter was the only one. Alone in his fear and trepidation of the fight to come. And despite Mr. Stark's assurance that he would keep Peter from getting hurt or killed, he knew the possibility was still high. This was war. This was a battle. Promises are always broken in times of fighting.

 The scuffling of dirt aroused Peter and Mr. Stark to look up right as a shadow fell over them. It was Strange.

"Time to get into positions," Strange announced. "Thanos is on his way now."


	27. The Fight for Our Lives

Thanos arrived.

Peter crouched behind his hiding spot. Mr. Stark told him to keep his head down. Don’t show himself too early. Stay the course. Everything would work. Everything would be okay.

He couldn’t help himself though. His curiosity got the better of him and he peeked over the ruins, spying down at the scene. Directly below, was a colossal, purple Teletubby. The newcomer’s purple hide was covered in battle armor, its bald head and massive chin exposed. Peter couldn’t see the titan’s face well. Too far up to get a good visual.

The titan's thunderous steps quaked the ground as he approached where Strange.

“Oh yeah,” Strange noted, leaning against broken stairs that led to nowhere, casually looking at the most dangerous enemy in the galaxy, the same enemy that hunted them across the universe. “You’re much more of a Thanos.”

And it went from there. Peter listened to the two talk. Thanos’ voice was deep and gravelly. It didn’t sound like a snake or a rattling unhinged lunatic. He was still a lunatic, but his voice was measured, calm. An old, tired megalomaniac.

The titan raised his arm, showcasing a sleek gold glove. It looked more like a gauntlet, forged with six settings, one on each knuckle and a larger one on the back of the titan’s hand. Already, four colorful stones fitted into the gauntlet. A bright red light emitted from the hand and the whole planet warped into a city center, thriving with life, bright blue skies and the star-like ships floating rather than laying in waste and broken.

Peter gazed at the incredible scene. It was beautiful.

“Titan was like most planets,” Thanos voice rang out again, drawing Peter back to Strange and the foe. The titan sounded frustrated, furious. “Too many mouths, not enough to go around. And when we faced extinction, I offered a solution.”

“Genocide,” Strange tsked, not at all mincing his words. Disgusted and repulsed.

Peter’s insides rotted, crawling back away from the ledge. No wonder he was called the ‘Mad Titan’. The guy was off his rockers! Killing trillions all to stop extinction. Did the purple giant not see the irony of his madness?

“Congratulations! You’re a prophet,” Strange mocked the titan. Was that a good idea to provoke the Mad Titan?

“I’m a survivor.”

Along with the trillions of lives he won’t have the chance to murder. Peter would make sure of it. The Avengers and Guardians would ensure everyone would be survivors in this war for life. Peter took a deep breath, jaw clenched. Ready for the fight of their lives.

Whatever it took.

“The hardest choices require the strongest wills,” Thanos said with a heavy voice.

Strange matched it with a determined one. “I think you’ll find our will equal to yours.”

The wizard conjured up his two golden protective mandalas. That's the signal! The battle started.

On cue, Mr. Stark, in full Iron Man armor, slammed a massive, broken column down onto Thanos.

“Piece of cake, Quill,” Iron Man called out, soaring up back into the sky.

Quill, aka Star-Lord, jumped out from his hide-out, activating his mask. “Yeah, if your goal was to piss him off!”

He shot up to join Iron Man right as a blast of purple energy exploded from the broken column Iron Man dropped on the titan. Thanos growled as the purple gemstone burned bright before the light switched to the red stone. The column morphed into a flock of bats. Thanos pointed to Iron Man and the bats zoomed right at him upon the Mad Titan’s command.

Iron Man shot off, the bats giving chase. Thanos grinned eagerly, wickedly as he watched the bats attacked Iron Man. Peter saw the titan get ready to use the gauntlet. Not on his watch! Peter swung down and shot off a glob of web into Thanos’s eyes.

Try to aim without sight! Peter thought as he watched Drax slide across the floor, knives slashing Thanos at the knees. Strange stepped down the stairs, a magical rope in hand as he joined Drax in battling Thanos. The titan deflected each attack, an impossible feat with his eyes covered in webs, but he stopped Drax and Strange from making a single hit against him. Then, Thanos got a good strike at Drax, sending the half-naked Guardian right through a rock structure.

Strange was alone, switching to a magical sword. Thanos grabbed the sword, ripping the webbing right off its eyes. Vision restored, he prepared to kill Strange when Quill bombarded him with blaster fire.

It distracted Thanos from Strange, giving the wizard time to create magical steps out of thin air for Quill to run across toward Thanos. The titan shot energy blasts at Quill, but missed as Quill hopped in air until he flipped over Thanos and strapped the bomb on the titan’s back.

Thanos was shocked, reaching for it as he spun after Quill. Star-Lord retracted his mask as a portal opened behind him. “Boom!” he said as he gave the titan the middle finger before disappearing into the closed portal.

The portal closed and the bomb’s beeping repeated rapidly right before it ceased. An explosion rocked Thanos, electrocuting the titan and throwing him off-guard. Strange whispered urgently to the cloak.

“Don’t let him close his fist.”

The cloak whipped off Strange’s shoulders and surrounded the gauntlet, keeping Thanos occupied. Peter saw a ring of fire come to life in front of him. His turn to play.

Peter jumped through, coming out right next to Thanos’ head. “Magic!” he exclaimed, punching hard at Thanos’ head. His knuckles collided against the titan’s head. Peter’s heart leapt when he heard the titan grunted at the pain.

Peter dropped into another portal and opened above Thanos again. “More magic!”

He snatched the bald head, swinging them both down to the ground as he dropped into another portal. Peter braced himself for the next portal, leaping through it and attacking Thanos from behind.

“Magic with a kick!”

He high kicked Thanos right in the face, knocking Thanos backwards. Peter smiled, happy to knock the big titan around, sending the titan spinning. Peter twisted into another portal and flew out to one on Thanos’ right, ready to continue his barge of attacks.

“Magic with a—”

His voice got cut off when a grip crushed his windpipe. Thanos was waiting for him and clasped him in a tight hold. Peter struggled, gasping for air as the titan slammed him down on the floor with such force that it left a crater where his body met the hard ground.

Still gasping, Peter wiggled and squirmed to get out of Thanos’ grip. Thanos glared down at him, bearing his clenched teeth. “Insect!”

Oh no… Peter’s lungs struggled to inhale. Collapsing. His head heavy and dizzy. Thanos was killing him!

Thanos scraped him up, shaking him hard to the point his head became a bobble head. With a loud growl, he hurled Peter directly at Strange. He and Strange fell into a ball of mess, tumbling over one another against the ruins until they stopped. Peter drew breath, loud and sore from almost being crushed.

Thanos ripped the cloak off his gauntlet and turned back to Strange and Peter. The gauntlet was raised, aimed at them.

Peter instantly backed up, cringing in anticipation of being blown apart.

A static sound erupted in his ear. A voice coming in. “ _Roll!_ ”

It was Mr. Stark. Peter didn’t know where the man was, but he did as instructed. He snatched Strange's arm and rolled them both out of the way. They left in time to avoid Iron Man’s explosive force. Rocket after rocket rained down on Thanos. Fire engulfed the titan, burning everything. Iron Man swooped down, more missiles dropping and exploding in a fire ball. A massive inferno engulfed the area.

“Whoa… yeah!” cheered Peter as he stood up, knees wobbling a little. He helped Strange up to his feet as well, watching the flames burn.

Strange pushed Peter back, throwing up gold shields to stop the fire from consuming them as well. Yet, all the glee and cheers faded when Peter watched the fire swirl, diminishing quickly as the gauntlet absorbed the fire. Thanos growled.

“Stark…”

The blood in Peter’s body went ice cold. How did the titan know Mr. Stark?

Even Iron Man sounded shocked, taken aback by the name recognition. “You know me?”

“I do,” Thanos affirmed. “You’re not the only one cursed with knowledge.”

What did Thanos mean? What knowledge? What do those two know?

Peter didn’t get the chance to analyze or even dwell on it. Thanos took that moment to reengage. He thrust the gauntlet, directing all the explosive fire it absorbed earlier right back at Iron Man.

“No!” Peter screamed as he watched the blast of fire strike Iron Man, shooting the man up into the disable structures with smoke billowing from Iron Man’s armor.

Peter raced at Thanos, shooting his webs at the gauntlet. His silk webbing exhausted the fire. Peter tugged, pulling the titan down and away from everyone. He won’t let Thanos kill anyone!

Thanos gritted and growl, yanking his webbed hand back to swing Peter forward and right into his fisted hand. Peter’s head snapped back and pain raged on every muscle in his face. Did his skull inverted into his brain?

Peter’s spidey-sense awakened. Danger! Incoming! Move!

Peter flipped up and over right as a new spaceship crashed right into Thanos. For a split second, Peter thought Thanos died. Who could have survived that? But he remembered the resilience of the monster, surviving the fire, column and other attacks they threw at him.

Thanos now battled the newcomer. Someone blue with weird, sculptured metal as a head. She was screaming and going head-to-toe with the titan. They were both yelling, but Peter didn’t care what they said to each other. It was time to go into action.

Peter’s turn. He swung around Thanos, lassoing him up in his webbing to keep Thanos in place. He held strong, keeping a tight grip. Thanos tried to free himself and slowly pulled Peter closer to him. Peter’s tentacles came out and pierced the ground to hold him steady.

Iron Man returned, landing right beside the gauntlet hand. The red energy from Strange’s ropes evaporated and Iron Man grabbed the gold gauntlet.

They had him! They had him trapped!

Peter glanced up to see a portal opening up under Strange’s command. Mantis, who waited for her big break, dropped from the skies and landed right on top of Thanos shoulders. Hands grabbed both sides of Thanos’ face, doing whatever magic or talent she had. Thanos fought. He screamed and yelled, but Mantis’ antennas burned white. And Thanos eyes went grey. He grew sluggish at every second. Mantis’ empathetic powers must be working.

Thanos’ eyes rolled to a close and his shoulders sagged. The titan was out.

“Is he under? Don’t let up!” Iron Man ordered.

“Be quick!” Mantis cried as she strained to maintain her hold on the titan. “He is very strong!”

“Parker, help!” Iron Man called. “Get over here.”

Peter abandoned his position, attaching his webbing to the floor to hold the titan. He rushed over to where Iron Man gripped the gauntlet, heaving the object off.

“She can’t hold him much longer. Let’s go!” Iron Man directed.

Peter fell right next to Iron Man and together, they took the gauntlet and struggled to pull it off the titan’s enormous hand. Iron Man at the hand and Peter at the wrist.

The gauntlet felt superglued to the titan. It didn’t even budge with their combined strength!

He heard Iron Man growl under the stress of removing the impossible gauntlet. “Again, again, again…”

“I am!” Peter strained, his muscles bulging underneath the suit. “It’s not working!”

Iron Man adjusted his hold. The nanites all working down at Iron Man’s wrist, exerting power in assistance. “Push on three,” he told Peter as he signaled down to three on his fingers. “Go!”

Peter pulled at the same time as Iron Man’s armor flared up. Together, they tugged and jerked, working together to loosen the gauntlet from Thanos’s arm.

“Good, Pete,” Iron Man encouraged. “Keep pulling.”

Peter squeezed with all his strength. He pulled the gauntlet to him, exerting all his energy into ripping it off the titan’s arm. Teeth clenched and face pinched in strong concentration, he tugged and tugged and tugged.

It was loosening. The gauntlet was moving! It was coming off. Sliding down the titan’s arm toward them.

“It’s coming undone!” Peter sparked in excitement.

“Cool! Let’s move,” Iron Man said to Peter as the gauntlet continued to give under their combined strength.

Peter examined the rest of the gauntlet, noticing a problem. “We gotta open his fingers to get it off!”

Iron Man worked on getting the fingers flattened so Peter could slide the gauntlet right off. A sound of rockets was heard overhead. Quill landed in front of Thanos. His face smug and gloating as he sauntered up to the titan.

“I thought you’d be harder to catch. For the record, this was my plan,” Quill boasted, throwing a finger at Iron Man as if to call dibs on Strange’s idea. “Not so strong now, huh?”

Thanos groaned as he tried to fight off Mantis’ mental attack.

Quill didn’t give a damn though. “Where is Gamora?”

Thanos’s head lolled, murmuring, “My Gamora.”

His response only angered Quill. “No, bullshit,” he spat. “Where is she?”

Mantis swayed on Thanos’ shoulders, her face contorting in pain. “He is in anguish.”

“Good,” Quill sounded happy as Thanos let out a loud groan.

“He… he’s mourns,” Mantis panted, almost near tears.

Mourns? Peter quickened an eyebrow at the purple monster. That didn’t seemed right. The man was a murderer! He wanted to assassinate half of the universe. How could a monster like him mourn over anything? He didn’t care about lost or death or anything or anyone!

“What does this monster have to mourn?” Drax spoke out what everyone thought.

“Gamora.”

It was a voice Peter never heard before, but Quill knew it. He turned to the blue person behind him. “What?” he asked.

The blue person zeroed in on Thanos, studying the monster’s expression. “He took her to Vormir. He came back with the Soul Stone…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But she didn’t.”

Peter flickered back to Thanos. Gamora—kidnapped Star-Lord’s lady friend. The moaning. Mantis saying he was in anguish. The blue person’s face twisting into anger and grief at her own words. Peter’s chest went cold. Oh no… no… no, no, no…

He killed her. Thanos killed Gamora. And he was mourning her death. Thanos was truly a monster!

Quill’s face creviced deep. Lips squeezed smaller and smaller, line firm into an aggressive scowl.

Oh no… no… no, no, no…

Apparently, Peter wasn’t the only person to notice the dangerous situation. Iron Man did too. Iron Man’s mask receded and he rapidly talked to Quill to calm him down.

“Okay, Quill, you gotta cool it right now. You understand?” Iron Man pleaded as Quill turned to face Thanos, his face contorted with fury. Iron Man, desperate and panicking, barked, “Don’t, don’t, don’t engage! We almost got this off!”

Quill ignored Iron Man’s pleas. “Tell me she’s lying!”

The blue person choked up as Quill screamed at Thanos. “Asshole!” he screamed, face flushed in anger and eyes rimmed in red and tears glossing the irises. “Tell me you didn’t do it!”

Thanos forced out his words. “I had to.”

Peter balked at Thanos’ reasoning to kill a person. Quill agreed. He shook his head in disbelief. “No, you didn’t. No, you didn’t.”

There was a quiet tension. Nervous, fearful energy electrifying the situation. Iron Man kept yelling at Quill to not engage. To back away, but Peter knew Quill wasn’t going to do that. Peter understood the man’s grief, the raw pain of loss. The need to do something. To release the anguish and pain and anger and sadness.

But not now. Peter had the gauntlet halfway off Thanos’ arm. A few more yanks and Peter would have the gauntlet off and in their possession. He needed Quill to not do anything stup—

Quill pistol whipped Thanos right in the face, slamming his blaster right into the monster’s face. “NO. YOU. DIDN’T!”

“Quill!” Iron Man shouted.

“Quill!” Mantis whimpered in in shock.

Iron Man abandoned the gauntlet and lunged at Quill, grabbing the man’s arm and restraining Quill. “Hey, stop!” he commanded. “Hey, stop! Stop!”

Peter worked quickly. He wiggled and pulled at the gauntlet, watching as it slipped further off the titan’s arm. “It’s comin’, it’s comin’,” he said as the gauntlet continued to slide into Peter’s grasp. He almost had it!

Iron Man wrestled Quill away from Thanos as Mantis screamed that she was losing control. Strange and Drax tried to assist Mantis, tightening their hold but the titan was coming around. He was regaining strength.

Peter, teeth grinding together, gave one final yank. The power of his tug sent the gauntlet flying right off Thanos’ arm. “I got it! I got it!”

In that exact, same moment, Thanos’s eyes snapped open.

Thanos roared back to his full strength, angrier than ever. He reached up to Mantis, snatching her off his shoulders. She screamed in terror right before he hurled her as far away from him as possible. Peter went to save her, but had to duck right as Thanos smashed everyone out of his way.

Drax, Quill, the blue person and even Iron Man flew backwards and tumbled down the Titan's landscape. He turned to Strange, tugging on the red, energy ropes hard to force Strange off his feet. He flung the wizard across the planet, leaving Thanos free from all binds and interference.

Only Peter remained standing. Frozen, gauntlet in his hand. 

Thanos’s gaze narrowed dangerously at him. "Give it to me!"

Peter was alone. Him and Thanos were the only ones standing. Just him facing the Mad Titan. Alone. With the gauntlet. The same gauntlet Thanos demanded now.

Peter shook his head, clutching the gauntlet to his chest. He backed away from the titan. Thanos would never get the gauntlet from him. Over his dead body!

Thanos growled at the disobedience, his teeth grinding down as his gigantic chin tensed in battle ready. The titan charged right at Peter, feet pounding the dirt hard enough to make Peter vibrate head to toe. The titan's hand slapped Peter, like one would hit a pesky fly. The power of the titan's slap knocked Peter off his feet, flying across the planet until he crashed into the ruined wreckage.

Moaning and his vision spinning, Peter weakly attempted to get up. But he was hit from behind, slammed back down to the ground, flattened as if to crush him to death. Then the weight disappeared and Peter was splayed on the dusty floor, sprawled helplessly underneath a cracked crater formed around his body. He whimpered at the pain crawling up inside him. But, Peter didn't let go of the gauntlet. He wrapped it around his arms, refusing to give it up.

Thanos was peeved. "You're a fighter. I'll give you that," he acknowledged. "But I am… inevitable!"

The Mad Titan curled his fingers into a fist, preparing to hammer Peter dead when a streak of red and gold flew at the titan. A brilliant sword shot out of nowhere and stabbed Thanos's side. 

Thanos bellowed in pain, surprised by the sudden attack. But, his surprise ended when the sword was yanked out and sliced right through the titan's neck. There was only a small gasp from the purple tyrant before the head lolled to the side and fell off the shoulders. The head bounced and rolled a couple feet away, its face away from Peter. The rest of the body swayed before it too tumbled to the dirt in fallen decay. 

Peter remained inert on the ground. His eyes focused on the headless titan who, mere seconds ago, attempted to murder him. He should have been dead. Thanos was about to kill him.

As the silence continued and the body remained lifeless, Peter lifted his eyes up. Iron Man was above him, standing with a sword—not sure where he got that. His iron mask was gone and he saw Mr. Stark’s face. He looked frozen too. He hadn't even moved an inch since he cut off Thanos's head. Both stunned in disbelief by all that happened in the past thirty seconds. Both fighting the urge to scream and cry, wanting the fear to ebb away from their hearts.

Peter thought it was best to try to get up. Carefully, he creaked up into a sitting position, but hissed when a spike of pain shot up his back.

Mr. Stark whirled, retracting the sword right back into his armor. He dropped down to his knees, frantically taking Peter's shoulders. His fingers dug into the grooves of his shoulder blades. Peter tried to get up again, but Mr. Stark pressed him down, restraining him.

"I'm fine," Peter insisted, but Mr. Stark wasn't listening. 

“FRIDAY? Scan,” Mr. Stark ordered.

The man ran a hand over the back of Peter's head, diligently checking for any major bumps or cuts. Peter didn't pull away. He sat still as he let the man check over him. Mostly because he too wanted affirmation that he wasn't going to die.

Someone bounced over to them. "Kid! You okay?"

Star-Lord. Quill's mask retracted and his face a burly mess of conflicting emotions. His crew stood back, watching apprehensively as they brushed the red dirt off themselves. 

Mr. Stark sighed, hands sliding off Peter's head in admittance that Peter was indeed  _fine_. 

So, Peter nodded to Quill. "Yeah, I'm okay."

Star-Lord whistled. "Dude! How the hell did you not get cobbled to death?"

Peter almost gave him a scientific explanation, but then remembered Star-Lord probably didn't care for the reason. More surprised and relieved than actually curious. Peter shrugged. "Luck."

Star-Lord’s lips quivered up into a smile. A triumphant, but sad smile as anger burned behind his eyes. He pivoted, pointed his blaster back at the titan. Mr. Stark pushed Peter’s head down and away from the scene right as Quill fired several rounds into the titan’s body.

Peter counted. Quill fired six shots.

Then, another, final shot rang, but further away. Peter couldn’t see where. Mr. Stark still blocked him.

“That’s for Gamora, you asshat,” growled Quill.

He stomped off, back to his teammates. All of them wore tired faces as well. Mantis reached out and touched Quill’s shoulder, murmuring words to him as Quill’s shoulders sagged just a bit.

Peter managed to gander a look past Mr. Stark's concerned and anxiety-riddled eyes to look at the still, purple, headless giant, now riddled with black dots. "Is he dead?"

Mr. Stark didn't even glance back. "That's what happens when one loses its head."

Peter looked from the body to the lone head. The face unseen. Unknown.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

It took Peter a second to compute it in his brain. The big bad. The main threat to the universe was gone. Dead. They won. Dr. Strange's plan worked and…  _they won_. 

Peter blinked up to Mr. Stark, still crouched beside him, worry in his eyes. “You saved me.”

Mr. Stark said nothing. So much was happening in that iron face of Mr. Stark. A cross of disbelief, distress and hope. His eyes were wide, but lips pressed into a thin line. The man swallowed, like something was stuck in his throat as he brushed a hand against Peter’s cheek, a thumb gently rubbing right below Peter’s left eye.

“Yeah. I did,” Mr. Stark finally answered.

There wasn’t smugness or a cocky grin. Or a smirk. Or an instant demand of gratitude like Mr. Stark did for Dr. Strange’s rescue. Only a deep, quiet sense of happy relief.

Mr. Stark helped Peter to his feet. Standing up, all that tension and fear fell out of Peter in one swoop. He was lighter, even with the heavy gauntlet nestled against his chest. Peter saw Drax pumping in victory. Mantis giggled with a cherry smile, squealing in delight. The blue person, whoever she was, stared at Thanos’ body. Expressionless, but gaze hard at the body as if they still failed. Like she lost.

And Star-Lord rocked on his toes, like he was almost dancing with someone. A ghost no one else could see. His face remained somber, eyes hardened to hold back unshed tears. After all, the man lost someone. He lost his love. Thanos killed her for one of the stones.

Not all endings are happy, Peter supposed

Peter looked right back to Mr. Stark. The man was tired, rattled and worried. For him—Peter. He watched Peter, hands hovering near him like he was cracked glass, readying for the fall. But, Peter wasn't going to fall. 

Because  _they won_.

His lips burst into a tired, but real smile. Peter’s whole body tingled as an impish glee and sweet relief expelled every worry or anxious thought. He looked back to Mr. Stark—Iron Man. The hero who stopped the Mad Titan and saved them. Saved Peter! Like he always did. Even back when Peter was that foolish eight year old boy, staring down at a Hammer drone.

In the adrenaline rush of pure elation, Peter dropped the gauntlet and swung his arms around Mr. Stark. "We won, Mr. Stark," he breathed, excitedly. "We won!"

The gesture surprised Mr. Stark as his body tensed for a few seconds before it melted into reciprocation. Mr. Stark hugged Peter, one hand cradling the back of the boy’s head and pressed close. Peter heard the man sigh, happy as he gently carded his fingers through Peter’s hair. No words passed, but the slight squeeze of the returned hug was enough to make the heaviness in Peter’s stomach flutter, feeling safe and cared. Everything was going to be all right. They won. They saved the universe.

No more alien invasions. No more worldwide—galaxy!—threats. No more senseless deaths. Or destruction. No more nightmares. It was over.

The endgame was finished.

The sound of footsteps stumbling over the rocks and metal caught Peter's attention. He looked over and spotted Dr. Strange moving along, a gash on the side of his forehead. 

"Dr. Strange!" Peter shouted, ripping away from Mr. Stark and running over to the wizard. 

The wizard stilled, unexpected by Peter's call. He didn't even have time to register Peter embracing him. Or at least, that was what Peter believed when he slammed into him with a strong embrace of his own.

“It worked!" Peter gleefully shouted in the wizard’s ear. "The plan... everything! We did it! We saved the universe!”

Strange didn't say anything. He didn't even reciprocate the hug. His body was tense, rigid and alert. His heartbeat steady and his breath deep and shallow as if in preparation for another round. Strange knew something. Something bad. Something none of them were aware about. 

Peter was about to ask what was wrong when Dr. Strange whispered, "Stay behind me."

Strange stepped forward, forcing Peter to let go of him. Peter was confused. He followed after Strange, wondering what was happening. Mr. Stark killed Thanos. He stopped the Mad Titan. What other threat was out there? Peter's senses didn't tingle. He didn't feel anything coming after them. 

Yet, Strange looked determined and wary. 

Peter closed the gap, walking up and examining the scene once again. There was nothing. Only them, celebrating their victory. The Guardians were all reenacting their greatest hits against Thanos, jibing one another. The blue woman stood beside Quill, both somber and gaze down in remembrance. And Mr. Stark... he stood in the center, near the dead titan as he bent over and picked up the fallen gauntlet. 

“Peter.”

Peter looked to Strange, who subtly slid himself close enough to Peter to almost block him from the others. "Peter," he whispered again from the corner of his mouth. "Get behind me."

The edginess of worry spiked Peter's concerns as he darted glances from Strange to Mr. Stark. Strange had his hands up, a sign of readiness for battle, and his stern, narrowed eyes watched Mr. Stark hold the gauntlet in wonder.

“Is something—”

" _Peter_."

Strange's voice was no less a command than a plea. There must be some kind of threat nearby, something that his spidey-sense couldn't pick up quite yet. Peter obliged and started to move into the directed position. 

Until a cold, powerful voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Don't move, Peter.”


	28. Inevitable

_“Don't move, Peter.”_

Peter froze upon hearing Mr. Stark speak. The man was quiet for a long time after they got the gauntlet and he killed Thanos. Peter thought it was a moment of reflection for their victory, taking a moment to revel in saving all of the universe. But the cold order trickled down from Peter’s ears to the rest of his body, chilling his bones until it reached his feet, rooting him to the ground. Frightened enough to not move another muscle. 

Strange moved his hands and fantastic lights emitted from his palms. "Let go of the gauntlet, Stark," he commanded. "It needs to be destroyed."

Peter watched Mr. Stark look flabbergasted by the notion. "Destroyed?" he breathed. "Why should we destroy it? This— _this_ —we can use this.”

Mr. Stark lifted the gauntlet. The stones glistened in the red light from the red skies above them. The gold plated gauntlet paled red, almost blending in with his Iron Man suit.

“This is what we need! These stones… We can  _end_  the fight. Forever!” Mr. Stark argued, brows furrowed in severity. “Isn’t that the objective? To end all wars before the wars end mankind?”

“How do you intend to do that, hmm?” Strange challenged, his eyes unflinchingly narrowed on Mr. Stark. “You dare assign yourself as our morality compass?”

“I dare to save lives!” Mr. Stark sharply inhaled, glancing away as he pinched his mouth in frustration at hearing any challenges against him. “What are you not getting? This is our salvation! This is how we can preserve the future!”

“The best way to do so is to scatter the stones, far away from one another,” Strange countered, not at all moved by Mr. Stark’s argument.

“Yeah man," Quill piped up, drawing up to the group. His teammates behind him, darting concerned looks between everyone. "I agree with the goatee wizard over there. Those stones... they're dangerous.”

Mr. Stark gritted. “Only in the wrong hands.”

Quill shared a feared look with Strange. Star-Lord rested his hands close to his blasters. "Yeah, about that, you see," he began, "everyone in the galaxy is the wrong pair of hands. No one should have any of those stones together. I mean, they were separated for a reason, right?"

“So, what? You want to throw them into the wind? Let someone else go treasure hunting and start this whole thing over again?" snapped Mr. Stark, his voice clipped with venom that Peter's flinched. "Is that what you want?”

“We won’t let that happen,” Quill said, his voice deeper than before, his fellow Guardians backing him up.

“Oh—so you're going to be our protectors? You and your band of misfit toys?” Mr. Stark scoffed, shaking his head as he grinned. It wasn’t warm or friendly. It was biting and incredulous. “Yeah, like I would trust you with my life let alone the galaxy.”

He jabbed his finger in Quill’s direction. “If you’ve forgotten, you nearly fucking cost us this round!” he hissed before nudging in Peter’s direction. “You’re damn lucky that my kid is strong enough to have pulled the gauntlet off that titan! Or else, we would all be dead because of your stupidity.”

Quill didn’t bat an eye. He gave a long, hard look at Mr. Stark before he slid hand over his blaster. An intense scowl forming at the bottom lip as the muscles around his jaw hardened in determined execution.

Strange, thankfully, cut in between them. “Quill’s concerns are valid,” he interjected. “They are  _dangerous_. No one should possess all the stones.”

“Yeah—so are guns, but we still let everyone have one,” Mr. Stark remarked in a clipped tone. “The  _safest hands_  are still  _our own_ , right? We have to protect ourselves, our  _future_!”

And right when he said that, Mr. Stark's eyes flickered to Peter. They stared at one another. One with desperation and riddled with anxiety. The other, Peter's, trembling, blinking repeatedly, uncertainty clouding the scene before him.

“Peter?”

Mr. Stark was calling to him. He registered it, but for some reason, he couldn’t speak out. That was fine with Mr. Stark. He only wanted the boy to listen.

“You agree with me on this, right?” Mr. Stark said, his stare drilling into Peter as if he could sink his thoughts into Peter’s mind. “You want to go home. Live with Aunt May without worrying what will happen to her? Without her worrying about losing you?”

Aunt May. His brave aunt who squatted in the tunnels for him, her life ripped away because of him. He would do anything for her. Anything to keep her safe and happy.

It must have shown on his face because Mr. Stark snapped his fingers in merriment. “There! My kid gets it,” he boasted. “He agrees with me. We need this to bring peace of our time.”

“You lie! The Spider-kid did not say a word!” Drax countered and the half-naked Guardian was right. Peter didn’t say anything.

Mr. Stark, however, disregarded that minor detail. “Whatever Dave Bautista,” he brushed Drax off as he sauntered toward Peter, closing the distance between them as he addressed everyone. “Point is that the gauntlet is our chance to end the reign of terror. If we have the power to save people, shouldn’t we do that? Shouldn’t we stop bad things from happening to good people?”

Peter’s heart quickened in a panic, but Mr. Stark carried on. “You think Thanos is the only big bad? No—there’s more,” he listed off with his fingers. “We got titans, gods, celestials, witches, tricksters, elves… I can keep going. There’s a whole galaxy filled with unknown power that we don’t even know about! And… what can we do?”

He looked at everyone. “What can _we_ do to stop them from attacking?” he posed to the group. “What can _man_ do to save itself against that type of power?”

“The Avengers.”

It slipped from Peter’s mouth. It didn’t even register in his mind. His response was quick and sudden that it drew all eyes to him. Peter fidgeted at the attention, instinctively scooting back.

“Um… I mean, we have the Avengers,” Peter said again, swallowing uncomfortably. “You stopped the Chitauri’s invasion—”

“Barely!” Mr. Stark spat in aghast. “Barely—kid. We got lucky. Lucky in the fact that our nation’s leaders decided to shoot a nuclear bomb in NYC. If they hadn’t done that, New York would be done. Earth would have been compromised. More people would be dead! Maybe even you!”

“Yeah, but… y-you stopped it.”

“Again—barely!” There was growing heat in Mr. Stark’s voice. “Peter—you were there! In New York when aliens attacked. You lived in that chaos. Do you really want another repeat? Want to put Aunt May in that kind of danger?”

Peter nervously shook his head. He wouldn’t want anyone to go through another New York. He was too young to remember 9/11, but he remembered New York. The aliens dropping from the sky, tearing the greatest city in the world apart, he watched hordes of people stampede down the streets. Their panicked screams climbed to a crescendo, reaching his bedroom window where Peter stood on top of his bed, watching the nightmare unfold.

Until Aunt May rushed in and grabbed him around his waist, carrying him out as she hurried from the bedroom. He remembered May pressing him close to her chest, hand covering his head as she ran out of the apartment. There were others in the hallway, running and screaming, but May held him, running fast down the stairs. She repeatedly told him everything was fine, but Peter knew it wasn’t true. But, he knew he was safe with her as they reached the basement, snuggled close up against the dryers to wait out the terror above them.

Peter never forgot the look on his aunt’s face. The wide eyes that only stared at the entryway or at him. When those eyes turned to him, she put on a brave face for him, but Peter still saw fear. He hated how her eyes got so large and her mouth stretched thin, and the way her forehead wrinkled, making her a lot older than necessary. He remembered putting his hand on her face, trying to rub away those lines. His hands got wet from the tears falling from May’s eyes. She was so scared. Her limbs trembling as she squeezed Peter to her, shushing him even though he didn’t make a noise.

He hated that she was so scared and he was not. Peter wiggled up and draped his arms around her like she did for him. He squeezed too, keeping her safe like she kept him.

The sound of machine winding up brought Peter back to Titan, looking up to see Star-Lord aiming his blaster at Mr. Stark.

“Stop it!” Quill yelled, and his teammates also brought out their weapons. “I don’t know who the fuck you are and I don’t give a damn, but stop scaring the shit out of the kid.”

Peter blinked. Was he scared? He glanced down at himself. Arms were wrapped around him, holding him as he stood awkwardly between Mr. Stark and Strange. Even in the heat and beads of sweat lining along the crown of his head, shivers ran through him. But what was he scared of? Of the past? Present? Future?

Mr. Stark drew his chin down, eyes dark and piercing as he looked at Quill with newfound abhorrence. “You want to know why he’s fucking scared? Because he knows what I am saying is true!” he stated. “These stones… it will be like having a suit of armor around the galaxy. Keep people safe and secured.

“No more need for Avengers! We don’t have to wait for people to get hurt before we do something about it,” Mr. Stark reiterated, sounding more frustrated by the lack of acceptance. He dropped his gaze back down to the gauntlet, his eyes lighting up like it was the answer. “Peace… how could any of you not want peace?”

“We do,” Strange’s measured voice replied, stepping forward to meet Mr. Stark. “Though not at the cost of personal freedoms.”

“No freedoms are being jeopardized.”

“As long as they don’t cross you,” Strange challenged. “If you use that gauntlet, that’s exactly what you will be doing. You and you alone decide the fate of the galaxy and its inhabitants. Many call that dictatorship.”

Peter whipped his head to Strange, brows wrangled at the absurdity of what Strange said. Peter knew Mr. Stark liked control. He liked being his own boss and preferred to be above authority, but to extend that to such level, it didn’t seem right. Mr. Stark didn’t want to be a dictator. He only wanted to stop people from dying. Stop them from being afraid.

And like Peter, Mr. Stark huffed incredulously at the insinuation. “I’m offering peace.”

“You’re offering oppression.”

Peter thought back to his conversation with Steve Rogers. Captain America knew Mr. Stark wanted to protect people, keep the world safe, but disagreed with Iron Man’s way to achieve it: _“But putting a gun to every head and saying it’s for security… it’s not freedom_.”

A chill pierced Peter’s heart. Mr. Stark wouldn’t…

“I have spent the last ten years of my life fighting to end all this and when I have the opportunity to do so, I’m going to take it,” Mr. Stark said, his mouth thin. “So, disagree with me all you want, but you have no idea—no idea!—of what losing is like. To watch people you love get hurt or die and knowing you could have done something. Could have said things or done things differently that would have kept them alive!”

Mr. Stark’s words struck Peter, forcing the repressed memories back into his conscious. Faint wheezes were heard in his head, images of a body on a sidewalk and when Peter looked down at his hands, the shimmering metal of his suit turned blood red.

No… no… no…

“I don’t answer to you,” Mr. Stark continued to glare at Strange. “And I don’t need your approval.”

Mr. Stark turned to Peter and firmly gestured. “Underoos—come here.”

Peter didn’t know what to do. His mind conflicted. His heart twisted and guts knotted. He wanted to protect the world. He wanted to help people, save people… so no one else had to experience what he had.

And yet, Captain America’s reasoning rang true. To give up freedom for security was no security at all. Even with Iron Man, the man who saved the galaxy from Thanos, leading the charge… it wasn’t right. It wasn’t freedom or liberty or true peace. It would be a lie. It would be wrong.

“Peter!”

Peter jumped at Mr. Stark’s snap. Mr. Stark’s eyes were dark in the red light. Almost black. “Get over here right now!”

The whirling sounds of blaster fire grew and Strange’s magic intensified. “Stay away, kid!” ordered Quill.

Peter looked around. Everyone was in position. Everyone had their weapons drawn, ready to fight. There was no need to fight. They were allies. They’re on the same side!

Peter looked back to Mr. Stark, still holding the gauntlet. The object that got everyone into this tense dilemma. If he got that away from Mr. Stark, it may calm everyone down. “I-I… please, Mr. Stark,” he said, pleading with the man. “Maybe… maybe I should hold the gauntlet? Just until we come to a decision. Let’s just go back to Earth, talk it over—”

Mr. Stark gave a long, disappointing sigh. “You too, huh?”

Peter swallowed. “No, no, no… I just think… a lot has happen and we could all use some time to cool down. Think and figure things out with cooler heads—”

Mr. Stark’s look quickly became annoyance. “I had this talk far too many times. I know every opinion, every debate,” he said, wiping a hand down his jawline. “And that’s fine because, if I have to, I’ll do it myself.”

A prickle of fear stabbed in the back of Peter’s mind. “Do what?”

“You’ll see,” Mr. Stark said, sounding more determined than ever that even the stones hummed louder from where they were placed on the gauntlet. “Now… get over here.”

Strange grabbed Peter’s arm. It shocked Peter how the wizard snuck up on him. He must have floated with the cloak’s assistance. “Don’t,” the wizard whispered. “Get behind me right now.”

“But—” He wanted to say he could talk Mr. Stark down. He only needed more time.

Mr. Stark’s cheeks grew red, his temper flaring the eyes as he growled, “Get your hands off him!”

Quill moved forward, weapon still aimed at him. “One more step closer to the kid and I shoot,” he warned. “Nebula? Get the gauntlet.”

The blue woman gritted her teeth as she drew her weapons up and ready to strike. Mr. Stark’s armor lit up, the nanites roaming over his body at command. Strange tugged on Peter’s arm to get him away from Mr. Stark.

“Stay behind me,” Strange directed as he pulled Peter behind him. “Whatever happens—”

Peter resisted a little. “I can help—”

“ _Peter_ —”

"Peter isn't going anywhere!" Tony's voice thundered and a bright, purple light blasted across Titan’s landscape.

The planet cracked and the dirt of Titan molted around Peter until it sucked on his ankles. Peter yelped and tried to jump out, but the ground hardened and he became trapped, locked in place. 

"Mr. Stark!" Peter yelped.

"Stay," was all Mr. Stark ordered before he whipped out his palm and shot a plasma bolt right at Star-Lord.

Peter gasped, thinking it was going to collide with the man, but the Guardian jumped out of harm's way, rolling around the dirt as Strange brought up a magical barrier around himself, absorbing the blasts Iron Man sent at him. Drax, Mantis and the blue woman named Nebula all joined the fray.

Peter, trapped by the dirt, watched in horror. "Stop!" he screamed at everyone. "Stop! Guys—stop it! Stop shooting!"

No one listened to him. Why would they? He was only a kid. No one ever took kids seriously.

Strange used all sorts of magic tricks to prevent Mr. Stark from hurting him, while Quill and the other Guardians used tactic maneuvers to hit or dodge. Nebula drew swords, running and jumping in hopes to stab him. Drax joined her, but neither of them were able to get close enough to hit him. Too many blasts bolts firing for them to get close. Mantis, sweet innocent Mantis, hopped around with her antennas glowing, afraid and unsure how to help.

Peter needed to put an end to this. He couldn’t watch someone get seriously hurt or worse, dead, before they cease fire. Using his superior strength and his suit’s capabilities, Peter hacked at the dirt trapping his feet, scratching furiously to dig himself out. His pinchers shot out, stabbing the ground around his ankles to assist him. He jostled his feet, trying to loosen the ground’s constricted grip on him. Upon a tug of his right leg, he felt the dirt loosened, giving him room to wiggle his toes.

Peter smiled at his success. No one noticed how close Peter was to freeing himself. Too busy shooting each other to notice.

One more pull, Peter thought to himself. That should get one leg free.

A painful cry pierced through the firefight. Peter whipped his head up and saw Mantis crumble off a rock and fall in a heap. 

" _Mantis_!" screamed Drax.

Quill stopped flying. His mask deactivated, eyes large and fearful as he stared at his fallen friend. His lower lip trembled as he waited for her to get up. To shake off whatever hit her. When she didn’t, Quill bolted for her, but a blast in front distracted him, forcing Quill to abandon her and fight again.

The girl laid still, unmoving. Almost like Peter. He gaped at where Mantis fell, silently begging her to get up. To stand back onto her feet. She couldn’t be dead. It wasn’t possible. She was alive and… and…

Drax roared in outrage, charging at Mr. Stark. "I will destroy you!"

Peter, frantic, yanked hard on his other leg and freed his feet from the ground. It hurt like hell though. All the jagged pieces of the ground bruised him, leaving grooves and imprints into his skin. Minor aches that he dulled to bury the pain in order to focus on one thing.

He bolted toward where Mantis laid lifeless. 

Arms pumping, Peter raced past Strange as he hung on the outskirts of the fight to reach Mantis. He kept his head down, avoiding missed blasts as he hurried over to her, praying that Mantis was only unconscious and not dead. Mantis didn’t deserve to die like this. She was sweet and innocent. Not a fighter. An innocent.

Peter was almost near when a ring of fire flared up, rushing right at him and encompassing him instantly. He attempted to stop, but tripped into the flaming circle. He entered somewhere dark and dank, and collided into a hard chest. 

“Whoa!" came the reaction and sturdy hands gripped Peter's shoulders. "What the—Peter? Where did you come from?”

Peter jerked his head back.

It was Captain America.

* * *

Captain America steadied Peter, pushing him into the light to get a better visual. The look of concern was embedded in the man's eyes as he knelt to Peter's level. Shadows moved behind him, slashes of light revealing little of who Captain America was meeting prior to Peter's sudden interruption. 

Peter sharply scanned his surroundings. He was not on Titan. The red dirt morphed into old, slimy stone, and the fiery sky was replaced with an arched stoned passage and speckled lanterns. Peter looked at the faces around him, seeing Nat, Sam and someone else with red hair running alongside their face.

Voices flowed around him too. Questions about his reappearance, what he was wearing and why he looked freaked out. But only one voice broke through to him and it was the legendary hero was close to Peter's face to get his attention.

“Peter? Are you okay?" Captain America said again. "Where were you? Your aunt was looking—”

Peter blinked back to Captain America. "I... I-I was... I went out. I met with Dr. Strange and... I-I mean, I was on the ship! They took Dr. Strange and I... and Mr. Stark..."

"You were with Stark?" Sam said, his tone accusatory. 

“He just came—”

“Give the kid a break," Nat snapped at Sam. "Can't you tell he's petrified?”

Was he? Peter didn't even realized he was shaking. Was that why Captain America gripped him tight? Was he going to pass out? 

“You're all right, Peter," Nat said, her voice less agitated than it was with Sam. "You're safe. We're going to take you to May.”

Peter didn't feel safe. He was on the edge of a very steep cliff, with fire circling around him and blasts ringing in his ears. "They're in trouble!"

“Who're in trouble?”

Mantis. Quill. Dr. Strange. Drax. The blue girl Quill dubbed Nebula.

Even Mr. Stark. 

"All of them," Peter said and he could now feel himself vibrating into a fit.

Everyone around him looked concerned. Nat nodded in Captain America's direction and turned down one of the tunnels. Captain America looked back to him. 

“We're going to take you to your aunt," Captain America explained, straightening up. "Do you think you can walk?”

He must be shaking so bad if Captain America was asking that question. Peter nodded despite his ankles throbbing from being entrenched in the ground. They walked through the tunnels, Peter a bit unsteady, but Captain America stayed close to support him. He always helped Peter over the steps and ledges. They finally got to the main room of their camp base and Peter spotted Aunt May, fraught with nerves, sitting on one of the rundown couches with Hawkeye.

She saw him too and rushed to his side. "Peter! Oh my god!" she gasped, pulling him to her side to plant a kiss on top of his dusty head. "Where did you go? Why did you leave?" She gave him a tight hug and for that brief moment, Peter actually felt safe and his quivering stopped. 

When they parted, May got a better look at him. Her nose scrunched up. "What are you wearing?"

He had forgotten that he wore a new suit, with advanced technology by Mr. Stark. Something he should have mentioned right away, considering it most definitely has a tracker, pinpointing his location to their secret headquarters. But Mr. Stark was thousands of light years away. He couldn't hurt them now. Only the others who were stranded on Titan.

“Here—" Nat led him and his aunt to the couch again. Hawkeye promptly got up to make room. "Sit and tell us what happened. From the beginning.”

Peter told them what happened when he went to Dr. Strange's headquarters. He spoke of an alien squid coming to steal the Time Stone from Strange. There was a fight that went from the Village to Washington Square Park and Mr. Stark arrived to help. The alien knocked Strange out and kidnapped him on his flying donut ship. Peter explained how he and Mr. Stark saved Strange's life, but ended up getting stuck in space before crashing on Titan. He introduced the Guardians of the Galaxy, who arrived on Titan to kill the big bad. Then, the big bad showed up.

“Thanos," Peter told the group. "They called him the Mad Titan. He wanted to destroy the universe. Wipe everyone out or... or something.”

Peter claimed they only had a one chance of winning. One in fourteen million. So, they came up with a plan and it worked. They got the weapon off Thanos and then Stark killed the Mad Titan when he tried to smash Peter dead. He heard his aunt's suck in a sharp breath before she squeezed his arm tight. He hadn't even gotten to the worse part yet.

“And... that's when it went crazy," Peter said, remembering Strange's and Star-Lord's reservations. How they confronted Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark's disagreements. "A-And they started to-to fight.”

"Who?" Captain America asked, but his tone told Peter enough that the man already knew. He already knew the participants. Only wanted the confirmation. 

“Everyone! Mr. Stark... Dr. Strange... Star-Lord and... a-and..." Peter swallowed hard to not cry. He could still see Mantis laying on the dirt, unmoving. "I-I... I t-tried to get them to stop, but... no one  _listened_  to me.”

"Why were they fighting?" Clint asked. 

“Over this gauntlet, I presume," Nat answered looking at Peter for confirmation. "My guess is Stark wanted it. The others didn't want him to have it.”

Peter numbly nodded. That was the basis of it.

Captain America sighed heavily, running a hand down his face in complete exhaustion. "That doesn't explain how you got here though, son," he said. "Did Dr. Strange send you? To warn us?"

“No," Peter whispered, shaking his head. He remembered the fearful look in the man's eyes when he ran past him. "He did it to protect me.”

May squeezed his hand right then. Probably more in fear than comfort. After all, he just came back from an alien planet, fighting for the universe, nearly getting killed in the process, and then straight into another skirmish between allies where his savior sent him back to Earth. Back to Captain America. 

Maybe it was to warn them. Maybe Strange thought Mr. Stark would kill them all and Peter became the best chance to warn the others of what was occurring. What was happening and find a way to stop Mr. Stark from achieving whatever he planned to do with the gauntlet.

Peter's gut ached and he roped an arm around himself. He wished it didn't have to be him to tell everyone the bad news. 

“So—that's it?" Falcon inquired. "You got shot through a portal and back here.”

Peter nodded, but it hurt to nod. His head was buzzing, prickling him. The adrenaline must be wearing off. All his bruises and sores reminded him that even with his powers, he was very much human. His head hurt the most though. Thanos's slap and punch left him winded during the battle, but Peter began to think it also gave him a concussion.

Falcon frowned at him. "You okay? You look ready to pass out?"

“I think I got a concussion," he muttered, leaning his head against his aunt. "From... from fighting.”

Clint walked away and returned with an ice pack. Peter thanked him and placed it against his scalp, drumming in pain as his stomach did repeated flips. He kept picturing the fighting. Mantis falling. Drax roaring. Quill flipping through the air, shooting blast after blast. Nebula screaming and slashing her weapons. And Strange, throwing the ring of fire at him and sending him back to Earth. Sending him away from the firefight. 

He hoped they survived. It was childish to hope everyone lived. That the fighting stopped the second he was gone, but Peter clung to that belief because... the truth was harder to deal with. 

Peter cringed under another wave of searing pain across his forehead. Thanos's blow was worse than he thought. May noticed and rubbed his back, gently as she soothed him. "Hey... hey," she comforted. "Everything's okay."

No, it wasn't. None of it was okay. 

The Avengers huddled, talking amongst themselves on what to do with this newfound information. Peter tried to eavesdrop, but the blinding pain in his head diluted his hearing, making it all sound garbled. His skin got hot too. The new spider-man suit really contained his body heat within him. He hung his head down, looking at the embossed spider on his chest, trying to figure out how to get out of it. It wasn't exactly a hoodie and sweatpants. How could he command the nanites to get off his body?

He picked at the suit, watching the nanites ruffle at his touch, but none peeled back. It was like they were glued to him, a part of him now. Was that the point? Peter shook his head. No, Mr. Stark's nanites disappeared at command, but what command? Was Mr. Stark the only person who could get him out of the suit?

A hand touched Peter's arm, redirecting his eyes back to those pale blue of Captain America. The hero kneeled next to the couch, expression soft and calming that Peter believed that everything was okay. That Captain America had a plan to fix the mess. Except, the pounding in his head wouldn't go away. No matter how many times he blinked and rubbed his face, the intensity didn't die down.

"Peter? I know you've been through a lot, but we need to know where Tony is right now," Steve said, keeping his tone even and not forceful. Nevertheless, Peter heard the urgency in his words.

“T-Titan... I think," Peter garbled out, wincing underneath the drumming of his head. "In outer space. Not here.”

“Okay, good, good," Steve said, his hand holding Peter's, gently rubbing it as a pressure. Maybe to help him focus? "Are you okay? Clint? Do we have anything for—”

Peter heard shuffling and something came up in his vision. A pill. Two pills.

“Take these," Steve said, handing the pills to Peter. "May help with the headache.”

“Shouldn't we get the kid to the hospital or something?" Falcon questioned. "If it's a concussion—”

“And let the government seize him again?" Nat said, shaking her head. "Can't go to a hospital.”

"He doesn't look good," came Scarlet Witch's concerned voice.

He didn't feel good either. Peter leaned helplessly against his aunt, who started trembling with nerves of her own as he got weaker and weaker.

“Is this normal?" May panicked. "Is it from being in space or-”

“Don't know," Steve replied, trying to press a bottle of water into Peter’s hands. "Never been to space.”

Definitely not from space. The symptoms would have started a lot sooner. No, they were happening now and increasing. Pulsing more and more to the point Peter wanted to scream it out of him. Run away from it. Run as fast as he could, but he was crippled by it. Something bad was happening.

“What?”

Peter blinked. Steve was looking at him again. His brows drawn together, concerned as he tilted his head. "What's happening?"

“I-I... I don't...”

Something. Something was happening. It invaded every sense of his, overpowering and demanding its full attention, curdling his stomach and trembling his heart. Peter didn't know what though. He was with the Avengers. He was with his aunt. Nothing bad was going to happen to him. There shouldn't be any reason for feeling broken or lost.

“Steve!”

Natasha's voice rang out, drawing everyone's attention to her in an instant. Her voice was frantic and scared, and her eyes rounded right at Captain America. Slowly, everyone looked back to their leader. Captain America stayed kneeling in front of Peter, bizarre by Nat's shout when he noticed what she spotted. What everyone else noticed too.

He was... dissolving!

Steve's hand slowly disintegrated. First his fingers, then his hands, trailing down to his arms. Inch by inch, his body dissolved in front of their eyes. Everyone fell in shock, unable to comprehend what the hell was occurring. Didn't know what to do or how to stop it. All they could do was watch, horror-stricken, as Captain America slowly dissipated. 

But Steve knew. He sadly looked on as his body disappeared. "Oh, Tony..."

Captain America's words drifted out as the last visage of him disintegrated into ash. 

Panic ensued. 

Not because Captain America vanished, but because everyone else started to crumble too. Natasha Romanoff was the next one to go.

She looked up, fear crossing her face for the first time. “Clint?”

Hawkeye raced to her, grabbing her arm as if to keep her there with him, to tug her back to life.

Like Steve, she turned to dust, and Hawkeye was holding nothing but leftover ash and air.

Falcon followed shortly after. His was quicker. He didn't get the chance to say anything before he became nothing but wisps of dark grey dust. Wanda backed into a wall, eyes wide, terrified, as she looked wildly around her. Then in a blink, she was gone too. Pieces splintered off Hawkeye and in a panic, he rushed to the door. 

“Laura! Kids!”

He never got to the door. His body burst into ash, fluttering in the air where he was last seen.

Through it all, Peter's head pounded, heart bleeding as he watched the Avengers dissipate to nonexistence one by one. He sat, scrunched into himself as he took in the terror occurring before him. His mind whirled. Questions, fears and dread swirled, paralyzing him in the unknown chaos. 

“Peter?”

Aunt May's voice sounded weak and scared.

 _No._  The word blared and burned in his mind. He turned to his aunt. Flakes of her were flying off, crumbling onto the cushion and fluttering to the floor. 

 _No. Please... not her_.

Aunt May wrapped her arms tightly around Peter, pressed closed, her voice in his ear. "I lov—"

Peter suddenly choked. Ash coated his lips, filled his mouth and clogged his nostrils as he breathed. He coughed, hacked and sobbed as his aunt dissolved into nothingness. Only a pile of scattered ash remained where she sat, where she once existed. His hands were dusted of his aunt, cover in the soot she left behind of herself.

Chest shaking, Peter stared hard at his hands. He willed it to be untrue. Willed for her to come back. Willed for another chance to stop her from disintegrating. 

 _Please... please... no_.

Both nothing happened. She didn't come back. Neither did Captain America. Or Black Widow. Or Hawkeye. Or Falcon. Or Wanda. Any of them. The tunnels, once filled with life and commotion, darkened and quieted. 

Peter sat alone amongst the piles of ash, tucked underground in the secret headquarters now turned crypts. He was left with the dead. The missing. The lost. 

And when that struck him, pain erupted in the center of his body. He convulsed, his heart shredding to pieces as he dropped his head in his stained palms. His face paled and body deflated onto itself. He wept, muttering incoherent pleas and sorries. But all he heard in response were ghosted words.

From Luke Cage –  _“Death is inevitable. People die. People live.”_

From hallucinated younger self –  _"You don't win. It's inevitable_. _"_

From Dr. Strange – " _Are you ready to face the inevitable_?"

Even from Thanos – " _I am inevitable_.”

Peter balled into himself, hugging his legs and dropping his head on his knees to contain the agony wrecking him. A loud sob escaped Peter's lips, reverberating through him, drowning and tearing him apart as he begged for them to come back. All of them to come back. But the dust didn't reform. It stayed as it was, secluding Peter to the dim, dingy tunnels alone.

He looked back at all the ashes around him, at the final resting place of all the heroes. 

It wasn't supposed to end like this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In regards to the gauntlet, it's more the comic version than the film version. Using it won't kill the person, but will weaken them to a point, depending on the individual's genetic make-up.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feel free to comment and/or ask questions.


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